


the star to every wandering bark

by gayneilman (monsternobility), terrybot3000 (jamestkirk)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Fake Marriage, Genderfluid Character, M/M, Other, Reverse Omens, Slow Burn, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), both authors are trans mlm, briefly!, emotionally charged spongebaths, this is an incredibly long fic strap in boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2020-08-19 14:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 97,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20210944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsternobility/pseuds/gayneilman, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamestkirk/pseuds/terrybot3000
Summary: When you imagine the end of the world, imagine an angel and a demon... in a slightly different formation than what you thought you knew.Raphael reaches out to touch this angel’s face, cupping his soft cheek in the palm of his hand. The new angel’s eyelids flutter, for this is the first touch he has consciously known beyond Her own.“He shall be called Aziraphael,” She says, proudly. “For he was made of You, Raphael.”He is perfect, and Raphael loves him immediately.





	1. prologue: romeo & juliet gay remix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so!! this fic. this fic is a monster. we (ronan & ari) started it a couple months ago and we've decided to start posting it now for a number of reasons. we're currently about halfway through chapter 6 and the fic is somewhere around ~55k. so. you can see how long this is going to get. each chapter is about 8-12k and we try and stay in that range pretty consistently. 
> 
> the total chapters are subject to change in case we end up splitting a chapter again but for right now it's 10, which means it should end up around ~100k. good omens sits at 106k so we're pretty sure we're just writing an entire novel. it's fine.
> 
> this is definitely getting finished we did not write over 55k to drop this.
> 
> fic schedule is going to be on mondays every other week. so chapter 2 will be out on august 26 and chapter 3 on september 9. this gives us plenty of time to finish up the fic before we get caught up, since we've been writing about a chapter a week. this might change to once a week once we finish the fic.
> 
> rating is _mostly_ mature and this chapter is somewhere between teen and mature. the explicit rating won't come in until chapter 3 but it's easily skipped without missing much. there's another explicit spot but we'll let you know before that comes up if you want to skip over it.
> 
> special thanks to our lovely beta, amiel, @bxyhoodbravery on tumblr and here we lov u <3
> 
> **edit:** fanart for this and every chapter is done by the lovely thornscrowned on tumblr, fishycorvid on here! she has done some beautiful art for this fic :') [here's](https://thornscrowned.tumblr.com/post/187113700760/well-this-makes-it-official-only-one-chapter-up) the link to the art for this chapter!
> 
> enjoy! this is our baby lol

Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
Admit impediments. Love is not love  
Which alters when it alteration finds,  
Or bends with the remover to remove:  
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,  
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;  
It is **the star to every wandering bark,**  
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
Within his bending sickle's compass come;  
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
If this be error and upon me proved,  
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

-Sonnet 116, Shakespeare

* * *

If you read a very funny book written in a very funny language, you might find an interesting beginning to things. It might say_ In the Beginning_. In the Beginning, the Word was with God, and the Word was God, and the Word - 

No. No, no. That’s not quite right. Let’s try again. 

A long time ago, actually Never, and also Now, Nothing is Nowhere. When? Never. It didn’t happen. Nothing was never Anywhere. That’s why it’s been Everywhere. So everywhere you don’t even need a where. Don’t even need a when. That’s how _every_ it - wait, no, that’s not quite it either, is it? Closer to it than most humans got, though [1]. 

In the beginning… In the _beginning_. In the beginning, there was nothing, and She was alone. It wasn’t the sort of nothing you would think of when you thought of nothing - it was more than that, for when one thinks of nothing, one must first think of _something_, and then the absence of that something to create nothing. 

This was the Nothing before the Something. The Nothing before Nothing was invented - the absence. The Void. The oxymoron - the impossibility of the midnight sun, the paradox of Not-Quite-Existence. Imagine a vacuum; then stop imagining vacuums, because such a phenomenon had not yet Become. But imagine. The Void of space before space existed, stretching on in every which way, an eternity of Everything and Nothing. A Void of… Void. It was so Nothing that it was Everything. That’s how Nothing it was. And amidst all of this, She was there. She was always there and She always would be - if ‘always’ and, indeed, time itself even existed in this Nothing-Nowhere-Everything-Everywhere. “Hm,” She would think, if thinking were a thing that would be done then, “This is dreadfully boring.” 

She, of course, knew how long She had existed in this space though Her later creations would not comprehend it - their minds too linear, too simple, not Eternal and Ineffable like Her own. She always had been, and She always would be. It wasn’t so terribly lonely as it seemed; Her company was all She needed. How long She sat - quietly, content in Her Nothing. How Long it would be, if Time existed. 

And then, She had an Idea. 

Enough of this Something-Nothing. She wanted to _go_ somewhere. _Do_ something. Be _something_. To Do or to Be something would be to _make _something. “Making somethings” had not yet, of course, been invented, but She was certain She could figure it out. She knew _Everything_, after all. 

She wanted things to Change. She wanted to Create. And of course She knew She could, because She had Everything She needed. 

And then the LORD Thy God steepled Her not-fingers and said, “Hm.” 

* * *

In a terribly round-about sort of way, this story is about a Boy. It is about the events leading up to the Boy’s birth - about the circumstances of his upbringing and his rebellion against what he was made for. It is about a Boy, half Angel, half Demon, all Human, as he stares down the Fallen Morningstar and banishes him back to the Pit from whence he came. He will be backed by an Angel and a Demon, themselves, as well as a Witch, a Not-Computer Engineer, a Witchfinder and a Fortune Teller. He will be backed by his Best Friends. He will be backed by his Family. 

“You are not my Father,” he will say. “You never were.” 

He will single-handedly stop a War from ending the world with naught but his Will. Reality will shift and change to meet him, just as it did when She created. 

It’s a rather shining moment for the Boy, really. His story will begin, and end, in a Garden. 

But before we get to all that, we need to talk about what happened Before. No, further back than that - ah, not _that_ far back. We just covered that, after all. 

No. After the Beginning, but before the End. The stretch of six thousand years between Time-Before-Time and The End. 

In a more direct manner of speaking, this story is about the prior-mentioned Angel and Demon, respectively. In another universe, it may have been the other way around. The Boy’s story has already been told. You know it by heart. You do not need his story. 

You need ours. 

_Our_ story begins, as it will end, in a _Home_. 

* * *

His first memories, when he thinks back to them, consist mostly of_ love._

It was a nice feeling to wake up to, the very first time you wake up. She told him his name and She told him what it meant. _It Is God Who Heals,_ She said without words, reaching to hold him, crafted from the firmament and the Nothing. He was not the only one. As he looked, there was another like a mirror staring back at him. Her first two creations. 

They were Five - Lucifer and Raphael; the Leader and the Healer, eldest, twins inseparable. Then, Michael and Gabriel, the Warrior and the Messenger. Then, almost as an afterthought, was Uriel. They were the Firstborn, and the Favored, an experimental run for both Angels and Humanity, not that any of them had any idea of this yet. It was the Time before Time, the Archangels alone with their Mother; and in Her sight, things were - for a time - _good_. 

They walked among Her, as much as one could ‘walk’ in such an existence and around them She crafted a place for them to live and worship. Nothing there could possibly be seen or understood by mortal minds - if Raphael tried to explain, they would soon find their poor brains quite suddenly popped by the words he used. The Archangels’ heads took the forms of creatures that had not yet been named, a halo of flame around each, enough eyes and wings to fill one’s gaze into eternity and thensome in a rainbow of colors. Each of them favored one color in particular - Lucifer’s wings the purest white, tipped in crimson like blood. Raphael sported wings the deepest green, deeper than any forest that would come to be. Gabriel favored violet, the same shade as his eyes, and Michael and Uriel preferred blue-tipped gold and silver respectively. 

The days (which were truly only ‘days’ in the _barest_ sense at all in that time did not exist nor did the sun or moon) were long and warm and _good_ and he and his siblings quickly established their own hierarchy among themselves. Raphael would trail after Lucifer as he bossed their younger siblings about, healing scraped knees and misplaced feathers with a glance and touch, unable to help but feel as though he was a little unnecessary. With Michael’s strength and Gabriel’s simplicity, Lucifer would lead them into endless shenanigans, leaving Raphael to carry Uriel along after them for she was the smallest of the Siblings [2]. And through it all, She would watch them fondly, gathering them to Her side and _loving_ them. She would assign them work, according to their Kind, for Her glory, smiling as Michael played at war. Raphael himself had found himself rather taken with these new things their Mother called Plants and was determined to learn all of them that he could. 

Uriel would sit with him while he tended his garden, when Lucifer grew tired of finding things for her to do. Her Given Purpose was “Dominion over the Souls of Men,” although none yet knew what that may entail; Mother’s plans were ever so elusive and She only offered an enigmatic smile when asked. 

“Raphael,” Uriel would always ask, ever so sweetly, “What is this one called?” 

And he would always smile, and remind her, “They have no names, not yet. I do think it rather looks like Michael, though.” 

The plant in question was, of course, a terribly prickly thing that you would likely call a spiny plum, or thistle. Uriel laughed. “It does indeed. Best not tell her so.” 

Michael had this terrible habit of getting incredibly uppity whenever one of her siblings so much as glanced at her teasingly. For a general-to-be, she was incredibly sensitive. 

Uriel unfolded her thin legs and stood. “What of this? What does it do?” 

“That is a tree. It’ll bear fruit, or something. I’ve heard it’s supposed to taste pretty good.” These are all questions he had asked God, himself and he parroted Her answers for Uriel dotingly. He still had more questions (he always did), but their Mother had shooed him away and the smile his sister offered him now was all the answer he needed. 

For now. 

God had never seemed upset by his curiosity; she favored it - even encouraged it, welcomed his thoughts on Her work. Even then, when he strayed too far, She would always let him know. A gentle chastisement, “Raphael, you forget yourself,” and he would bow his head and leave Her to Her work, a million thoughts bounding through his heads like hounds. 

Michael and Gabriel, however, found it to be irritating. 

“Why do you always ask Her all those questions?” Gabriel would grouse. Of course, being the second-youngest and arguably the pushiest, the irony of him asking a question himself was lost. “There’s no point to it, you know. And actually, if She wanted us to know, She’d tell us.” 

“I dunno, Gabriel. I s’pose I just enjoy engaging in a conversation, unlike some people.” It was a gentle jab, accompanied with a smile. “She doesn’t mind my questions. Figure She might like you more if you’d ask some, too.” 

“She likes all of us equally,” Michael sniffed. She was seated primly, her legs folded underneath her. Her posture was always perfect. “And your blasted questions interrupt the flow of Her stories. It’s… rude.” [3]

Raphael scoffed. Beneath his hands, a rose blossom bloomed. These were fickle things - Uriel had just pricked herself on one of its thorns the other day. Why should it need thorns in the first place? 

“Rude, sure, yeah. Totally. That’s why She never tells me off for it, right?” 

“She does, though,” Gabriel continued. “Just earlier today She did, Raphael. You said ‘but why do opossums need that many teeth,’ and She gave you a Look.” 

The Look was best described as ‘fondly put-upon,’ which is much like how Raphael felt now in the face of Gabriel’s… well, Gabriel. He rolled his eyes. 

“Oh, brother. Sure, Gabe, whatever you say.” 

And then, the time came that the Archangels would be asked to Help. Finally, their Mother drawing them close to Her side once again, She told them of Her Plans. 

Some of them, anyways. 

Together, he and Lucifer crafted new things alongside their Mother, to the delight of their younger Siblings. Raphael would flex his not-fingers and blink and then suddenly a star would be born, and another, and a million more. He and his brother would join hands, compress the gases and dust they needed between their palms, and an entire system would come into being, great arms of galaxies delicately woven into the fabric of space. Not all of them had the talent for this. Michael managed to craft herself a decent little creature that she’d deemed a Duck and Gabriel managed… well, a strange little rock that their Mother proudly declared a meteor. Uriel didn’t do much at all, young as she was, but she remained thoroughly enchanted by Raphael’s work. He would conjure up a million tiny miracles to see her smile. 

Eventually, as Lucifer tired of their games, Gabriel would join Raphael in crafting stars - but Raphael remained one of the sole authors of the constellations. 

It was rather a point of pride, for him. 

* * *

In time, others join their Family. 

God disappears to Her plane for eternities at a time and when She emerges, new creations follow. Thrones and Ophanim, Seraphim, Cherubim. Principalities. Angels, all of them, like the Archangels themselves. Each have forms as varied as the Five. Raphael finds himself presiding over the Cherubim, and She sets him as the highest of the Virtues, who hang on his every word. Lucifer remains Her right hand, though with each new angel he grows ever-more distant. 

Even with that, in these days, all is golden and light. In these days angels still dance. And dance they do - for time unknown, singing their wordless Songs, rejoicing in the life they have been given. 

And She walks among her Archangels in the closest thing She has to a physical form [4], with him, side by side, sometimes in silence - oftentimes in conversation. Raphael still hasn’t managed to find an end to his questions. 

On this day, he remains quiet, hands delicately clasped behind his back. 

“Something troubles you, Raphael.” Something is always troubling Raphael, truthfully, though today more than others. There’s never any point in trying to hide it - not that he would ever hide from Her. He bites his lip, watching the newer angels learn their way. It is Good, and yet… And yet. Could this be Malcontent? Has there ever been such a thing before? Surely, he has no right to it. 

She stops, turning to face him. She takes his hands in Hers. 

“Speak, Dearheart.” 

He inhales. 

“I think I feel-” the word he speaks is a new word, a word not yet known for a feeling uncommon among their Kind, but it starts with something that could be an L and rhymes with ‘homely.’ It is a feeling that will be known by most creatures on Earth, at one point in time, whenever the Earth gets around to being made. It is, indeed, a terribly sad thing. His Mother’s brow furrows. 

“Are you not pleased with your Siblings? Your Virtues? The lower Cherubim have I crafted for you?” 

Raphael winces at her tone. “No! No. They’re perfect, really, flawless, y’know, just like… well, everything. I love ‘em.” It’s the truth - his Virtues were such sweet things, so very helpful if perhaps a bit unimaginative. They would teach the Humans much. “Just…” 

She draws him down to sit beside Her, bringing him close to Her side. She passes a not-hand through his hair, sparks of flame leaping between Her not-fingers. “You feel your twin brother tires of your presence, and your siblings have all their work cut out for them already,” She says. “You know your Virtues will never look upon you as they do, however much they may love you. You desire more. A friend. You wish for one… made for You. Is that correct, Raphael?” 

He releases a breath he didn’t need and, indeed, did not realize he had held. “Yep,” he sighs. 

She hums, and for a long moment She is silent. Contemplating this new information presented to Her. Then, She looks down at him, and smiles. 

“Come,” She says. 

* * *

She brings him away into Her own plane, settling him into soft soil. “Sleep,” She says. “When you wake, this feeling that plagues you will be no more.” 

* * *

And so it is. 

* * *

He wakes, much like he did The First Time, to the feeling of Love. This time, in his moment of content, he notices something amiss. Some amount of essence, some small holy light. And when he looks, She stands before him, accompanied by her most fearfully and wonderfully made creature yet. 

Raphael reaches out to touch this angel’s face, cupping his soft cheek in the palm of his hand. The new angel’s eyelids flutter, for this is the first touch he has consciously known beyond Her own. 

“He shall be called Aziraphael,” She says, proudly. “For he was made of You, Raphael.” 

“Aziraphale,” repeats the newborn angel, and he smiles beautifically. “Is that what you said?” 

He is soft and kind, with the most startling blue-green eyes and softest shock of stark-white curls. Despite England not yet being a place that exists, he is somehow _obnoxiously_ English. 

He is perfect, and Raphael loves him immediately. 

* * *

He shares with Aziraphale _everything_. 

He brings him to his Virtues, his Cherubim, and sets him as his Companion at his Right Hand. He walks with him in his garden, smiling at his delight experiencing every fruit grown there, beaming as Aziraphale fondly pets one of Raphael’s own serpents and compliments its stubby little legs. And, above all, he shares with him God’s Plans. As much as he is at liberty to tell, he does. 

“She has told me,” he murmurs, conspiratorially, “that She plans to introduce a new Creation soon. The thing we’ve all been working for, the thing all this was made for. She’s still workshopping on the name, though. Homo… Something-or-another.” He waves a hand. “Name doesn’t matter. My point is, apparently it’s going to be real big.” 

Aziraphale nods along, biting down into a large peach. Perfectly ripe and sweet as milk and honey, as every fruit among them was. Something whose juices might be known someday among the humans as ambrosia. Raphael pauses, mid-speech, riveted, as juice bursts from the fruit, travels down Aziraphale’s wrist, his forearm… dribbles from his chin. His eyes slide shut and he moans happily around the bite. 

Raphael swallows. 

Not for the first time, nor nearly the last, he considers how beautiful this creature beside him is. 

He wants… he wants something for which there is not yet a name. He wants to take Aziraphale’s hand in his, kiss the juice from his fingers, follow the sticky trail with his tongue. He wants to know the way it slips down his neck, to feel how it gathers at the corner of his mouth. He wants… he _wants_. He doesn’t even know what he wants, except that he does. Aziraphale sighs contentedly, idly sucking his fingers clean, pink tongue darting out to clean his lips. Raphael _burns_. 

Aziraphale looks up from his meal, blinking innocently. “Are you quite alright, my dear?” 

Raphael gives himself a good shake, rolls his shoulders, a horse displacing flies. Best not think too much about it. He offers a terse smile. “Yeah. Sure. Completely fine. What was I talking about?” 

Aziraphale offers one of those blessed smiles, again and Raphael does his best to continue to not think too much about it. _My dear_. Thankfully, his angel seems unwilling to comment on Raphael’s lapse in judgement. 

Later, they dance together in their meadows, soft grass beneath their feet. At one point in time, angels did dance - albeit not particularly well, and especially not Raphael. It isn’t a dance any human feet would come to know. Indeed, it’s hardly a dance angel feet would know, mostly a jaunty tug at Aziraphale’s arms into a tuneless sway, laughing against his shoulder, tripping on uneven ground. An excuse to breathe each other’s air, to hold him close to his heart. After an ungainly maneuver Raphael pulls, a fondly fed-up Aziraphale easily slots into leading him and it feels… almost natural. 

“You have two left feet, my dear,” he laughs, and Raphael grins. 

He brings him the stars, next. Drawing him close and explaining the science behind it. Watching him take in the nebulae, seeing them through Aziraphale’s eyes, is very much like seeing it anew all over again. Is this how the Lord felt when She created Them? Knowing that now, there would be someone to share this with? 

“Usually,” Raphael said, gathering one of his creations in the palms of his hands, “She provides us with what we need for it, really. All the gas and, you know, dust and whatnot.” He looks at his angel, sees how his face is lit by the light of this star, and can’t help but smile. “But She’s shown me how to do it properly. Out of nothing, y’know, like She does. D’ya wanna see?” 

Without even waiting for a response, he Creates. Raphael reaches inwards, then outwards, then Blinks - and just like that, a new star is born. He blows on it, gently, stoking its fires. “Here,” he says, taking Aziraphale’s hands. “Hold it. It’s for you.” 

“For _me?”_ Aziraphale wrings his hands nervously, swallowing, shifting in a gentle sway, eyes fixed on the newborn fireball. It’s a thing he does when he’s unsure or uncomfortable, Raphael knows. A gentle sway, a lean away. He’d only ever seen it happen around the other Archangels. “It won’t burn, you said?” 

The thought of him… afraid. Fearing. It settles low in Raphael’s chest, like a rock sinking to the bottom of a riverbed, and he does not enjoy the sensation. Perhaps he should have asked beforehand if this was too much for him. 

Raphael squeezes his hand. “I’d never let you burn.” 

“Well, when you put it like _that_.” 

He cups his hands around this wondrous new thing, much the way he’d seen Raphael do, and releases a shaky breath that he didn’t need. There is a smile on his face, now, gradually less unsure and more wondrous. “It’s… it’s _warm_.” 

“Of course it is, dearheart, it’s on fire.” Raphael doesn’t have it in him to be cruel to Aziraphale, so instead he puts his hands around Aziraphale’s and laughs. “There’s a star here for every angel, you know? ‘For every life that is, and every life that will be,’ She told us. We’re still working on it some. Been quite a lot of work backlogged. And, I s’pose, be ‘we’ I mean. Well. Me.” Since Lucifer had bored of it and Gabriel is - well, Gabriel. He shakes his head. “Some of ‘em don’t have names yet, but they will.” He looks down fondly at the white little thing in their shared hands and sighs the tiniest sigh. Snakes were a fun break, and a break he enjoyed working on, but now back among the stars… he’s got his work cut out for him. Eventually, the eldest stars will die and birth new ones still, but there still needs to be enough to _start with_ for that. 

“What about this one?” 

Raphael blinks. “What about it?” 

“Does it have a _name_, dear,” Aziraphale sighs, achingly patient. Fondly put-upon. 

“Oh. _Oh._ I mean - I s’pose not.” He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I - I made it for you. Guess you could name it, if you want.” 

Aziraphale tilts his head, consideringly. 

“...Polaris,” he says, tasting the name. Then, he nods. Sure of it. “Polaris.” 

_“Polaris?”_

“_Polaris_.” He hesitates. “...why, do you think it doesn’t work? It was just the first thing that came to mind, truly, and surely naming things can’t be as easy as She makes it seem-” 

“No! No. I like it.” Raphael nods mechanically. “I like it. It’s perfect. It’s… They’ll love this star, Her Creations. Y’know. The Homowhatevers.” He looks at the star between them, then at him. Guides their hands together to place the newly-christened Polaris. “It’ll be their North Star. Wherever they go… wherever they go, it’ll lead them home. Save them. They’ll sing songs about it, I’d bet.” 

The way Aziraphale looks at him now could nearly be blasphemous. He wets his lips. “Oh? How do you know that?” 

Raphael’s grin softens into something tender - something New. 

“‘Cause you’re mine.” 

His Polaris, his North Star, the one who will always guide him home. ‘Cause wherever Aziraphale is, that’s home enough for Raphael. 

He _is_ his home. 

Had She known this would happen, when She made him? Either of them? That in doing so, She would create something entirely new? The Wanting has returned - the _needing_, that which he has never felt with another, not even his own twin. Desire. The desire to draw him as close as possible, close the space between them, become One again as though they had never parted into two in the first place. Raphael watches the soft upturn of his companion’s lips, the slightest part between them, and wonders what they might feel like against his own. 

He need not wonder for long. 

Using their shared touch as leverage, Aziraphale pulls Raphael to his chest and brings their mouths together. It’s a new and unfamiliar configuration; While not unpleasant, it was certainly awkward - doesn’t entirely work until his angel pulls back with a mild sound of frustration and tilts Raphael’s head for him with a hand on his jaw. And then… and Then. 

They fit together like something long-lost. Raphael makes a small surprised noise in the back of his throat which is quickly swallowed and it’s followed by the tiniest whimper as he pushes ever closer and cradles Aziraphale’s face in his hands just like he did the moment he was born. His lips are every bit as soft as they’d seemed, silk-like as they slide against his own, and Aziraphale slips a hand into his red hair and sighs against him. There is no word for This Thing they are doing yet Raphael wants more, more, _more,_ clinging as close as he is able, stars above and beneath and between them. It is the first Kiss, and it is followed by two more, and then three, and then a seventh more exploratory effort where he parts his lips for his _lover_ and Aziraphale licks into his mouth and tastes him like he would the finest fruits the garden had to offer. 

Raphael can still taste the peaches on his tongue. 

It’s clumsy, his reciprocation, his _experimentation_, catching Aziraphale’s bottom lip between his teeth in curiosity at what reaction it may net him. And Aziraphale all but _groans_, settling his other hand on Raphael’s waist. It’s good. It’s _good_. Lips were made for this, must have been. 

Raphael pulls away, swallowing, shuddering, running his tongue over his bottom lip and watching Aziraphale’s eyelids flutter. It’s too much, too much. It’s not ever going to be nearly enough. He feels his chest might burst. 

“I love you,” he breathes, the first time the words have made their way into the universe, and then presses a kiss to his mouth, his cheek, his temple. “I love you.” 

He doesn’t need to hear it back. The self-same smile and press of Aziraphale’s forehead to his own is more than enough of a reply. 

* * *

When he questions God about it, all She does is smile enigmatically. Like She knows something he doesn’t. 

His Siblings, however, don’t seem to understand it one bit. They hadn’t understood Raphael’s melancholy in the first place, had not seen the need for a new angel special for him, and they continue to not understand him even now. 

“So you love him,” Gabriel says. “We love all of our brethren. It’s what we were made to do, Raphael, we’re beings of love. And all. That.” He gestures vaguely. “So what’s so remarkable about this one?” 

Raphael puffs a breath, frustrated. “I _know_ that and I _do_ love all the others. He’s just - it’s different than the love I feel for you, Gabriel, honestly.” He couldn’t imagine wanting to suck face with his youngest brother. Ew. Ick. No thanks. “I just - when I see him, this corporation’s heart does. Things. And its pupils dilate. And I want to… to hold him…” He thinks of his fingertips tracing the bare skin of Aziraphale’s shoulders as they lay together, making constellations of his freckles, feeling the soft curve of his cheek and downy silver hair. He swallows. “It’s just different. Y’know?” 

“Not really,” Gabriel says, nose wrinkling not-so-handsomely. He's of the opinion that loving one person over the majority or even, God Forbid (ha), over their own Mother, should be grounds for some kind of. Hm. Lecturing, perhaps. Even if it is a ‘different kind of love.’ He remembers being Lectured whenever he’d say something that upset Uriel. It wasn’t terribly fun. 

Michael, who had up until then been very carefully not weighing in on the conversation, hums in agreement as she files her nails [5]. 

Uriel mostly looks confused. 

Lucifer, knowing his brother like he knows his own mind, reading Raphael like a book, tilts his head consideringly. It’s a strikingly bird-like motion. “I think I understand him just fine.” 

He offers his brother the same enigmatic smile and Raphael could all but collapse in relief. _Finally._

“Of course _you_ do,” Michael snarks and soon after that they dissolve into a bickering they had not allowed themselves in millennia. 

* * *

It’s after that when things began to go downhill. 

* * *

The Lord makes Her announcement. Her Revelation. The metaphorical pulling back of the curtain to reveal the Final Project. What they’ve all been working towards for Her Glory, aside from worshiping Her. That which, until now, She had told no one but Raphael. 

“These,” She says grandly, “will be Humans. They will be made in My Image, and you - My Children - will bow to them, and serve them.” 

And the angels rejoice, as they always have. But Raphael… Raphael remains troubled. By his side, Aziraphale touches his arm in concern, but it goes unnoticed. 

She takes him aside, after, a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You will be their Healer,” She says, Her voice a smile. “You will help them when their time of need arises.” 

_Time of need? _Raphael frowns. “I don’t - Lord, I don’t understand. Why would they need a Healer?” And then, the concerns of his eternity come rushing to the forefront. “Why do we need a Healer at all? Most of the things I work with, you know, it’s very.. It’s real minor stuff, y’know. We don’t really _get_ hurt, angels. And they’re not - the Humans won’t be Suffering, you said so. A paradise. All that. Y’know.” 

It’s a question he’s asked a million times before, and a million times She has answered him with a cautionary glance and nothing more. Now, She turns away to return to work. 

“You will Ease their Pain, Raphael, it is what you were Made for. You will teach them how to Endure Suffering.” _It Is God Who Heals._

He should stop asking, he knows, but his next words jump from his tongue before he has the chance to bite it. “But why? Why should there be Suffering at all?” 

As She turns, he realizes that he’s suddenly toeing a very, very thin and potentially dangerous line. He drops his gaze. “I - sorry. I know. I forget myself.” 

She makes a noise that is not unlike a sigh. “Raphael, my Dearheart, you ask so many questions.” 

He doesn’t understand. He isn’t sure he ever will. 

And his brother… Lucifer understands, but he is far from pleased. He hides it, or tries to, but Raphael knows him. Knows what his distance means; knows what it has meant, with how little he spoke to them over the last few eons. He’s kicking himself for not reaching out to his brother sooner. 

But they have always told each other everything and why should this be any different? 

“I don’t understand it,” Raphael sighs. “I just don’t… get it. Why She would make it so that they suffer? How’s She even going to go about that, if there’s no suffering in their world? Where will it come from? How will it be introduced? And why is it necessary? When I asked, She just did that. Thing.” 

Lucifer nods sympathetically, the very face of compassion, though his eyes blaze. “It doesn’t make sense, does it, brother?” he murmurs as he ties up the end of one of Raphael’s braids he’s been working on, hands quick and steady, a lingering sentiment from their time Before the other angels. “And your siblings don’t see what’s wrong. They think She can do no wrong.” 

Well, that’s alarming. Raphael sits up. “She _can’t_ do wrong, Lucifer.” 

“Can’t She?” His lips quirk, and it’s almost cruel. “And anyways, darling, She has never told us everything. This is more of the same. It’s like a game to Her.” 

The way he says the word makes it seem as though it isn’t a fun game at all, not like what they used to play when they were New. The tenseness does not leave Raphael’s shoulders. “Luci, you can’t just say that.” 

“I can, and I will,” he responds matter-of-factly, roughly tugging a tangle from his brother’s hair. 

And here Raphael had thought he was upset by this new announcement. Lucifer is all kinds of out of sorts. He's _never_ been this… outright doubtful. Not to their faces. And, though he is ashamed to admit it, his twin’s doubt is infectious. Lucifer continues to speak. 

“I mean, honestly, were we not enough for her? She said we were Good and then She went and made more. Alright. Fine. So She made more to worship Her. Fine. But now these… these _Humans_. She expects _us_ to serve_ them?”_

A chill runs down Raphael’s spine. He sits upright, again, braids forgotten. 

_“That’s_ what you’re mad about?” 

“Of course.” Lucifer settles his hands into his lap, since he clearly isn’t allowed to play with Raphael’s hair any more. “Aren’t you? Why should we serve them? They should serve _us. _We’re _Immortal._ We _Create._ We’re just like Her, yet somehow we are the least of Her creations. We should have known we’d never be enough.” 

Lucifer takes Raphael’s horrified silence as permission to push onwards. “Listen, Raphael. We are not the only ones who feel this way. There are others, even among the lower angels. Friends of mine. You should hear their views also, my darling. I know you have doubts. We all do.” He kisses his twin’s forehead. “Think on it.” [6]

_Friends of his. _So that was what Lucifer had been busying himself with as he distanced himself from their Family? Raphael almost wonders if he should feel betrayed [7]. 

Mostly, he feels suddenly, terribly frightened of what is to come of this. 

What does Lucifer mean to do with his ‘friends?’ Stage a rebellion? Laughable. It’d be pointless. And to be so outraged over being asked to do what She has said - he’s always known Lucifer to be prideful, but this? _This?_

And then there’s his Doubts, which his brother had so lovingly planted in his mind. He’s never doubted their Mother before. Questioned, yes, voiced concerns, but doubted? Never. Not even once. With the way their other three siblings follow Her, Raphael rather doubts - ha - that he could speak to them of it, either. His Virtues, no matter how he loves them and they love him, are too new to understand. His Cherubim may attempt to smite him for even thinking about it. 

So he goes to Aziraphale, instead. And he is held. 

* * *

Something terrible is bound to happen. Raphael knows this. He just hadn’t realized just how terrible it would be. 

* * *

There is a War. The very first. Some first-hand accounts describe a red-haired woman, neither angel nor the soon-to-be-invented demon nor even Human, laughing as she danced through throngs of flashing blades. No one knew who she was, for as soon as she appeared she was gone; she would not be seen again for hundreds of years. 

* * *

Aziraphale has been assigned a flaming sword and a Side. 

Really, he rather finds the whole thing to be terribly distasteful. Not to mention, also, grisly and tragic and altogether _unnecessary. _All this over Her Humans? Really? And all the angels suddenly so… sure they’re on the Right Side. The side Against Them, driven to bloodthirst by their zeal and fanaticism. Though being told he’s Right is a rather heady thing, he isn’t made for this. Or, well, really, he is, but he doesn’t quite want to think about that. All he wishes to do is keep Raphael safe._ That,_ as far as he is concerned, is what he was made for. 

And since Raphael insists on healing for both sides of this War [8], he has - as they say - his work cut out for him. 

He was not there for the Beginning - but he knows what Raphael has told him of it. In these days of war, the gold has tarnished and light faded to dusk. Angels no longer dance, and they never will again. 

As sibling fights sibling, pain is birthed, and Death had not been known before this day. It is known now. Azrael had realized his purpose. 

But the greatest horror is not yet to be known. 

The Lord had, for most of Her part, remained silent. Some wonder if She’d ever speak again. She had set Michael as her General and Raphael as her Healer, in the beginning. Had She known, even then? Whether She did or not, Her Archangels hold a power over others and each other that no other angel has. 

Truth be told, Aziraphale will later struggle to put what happens then into words. He’s very mildly threatening to smite someone when there sounds a _crack_ like thunder and his adversary is just. Gone. 

He’s fairly sure he hadn’t done that. Behind him, Raphael shudders and makes a wretched noise like his wings have been torn clean off. 

All around them, more and more of the Other Side begin to Cease with the shrieks of the newly-damned. And above, at the Head of it all, stand the remaining Archangels - golden blood-stained Michael, her hand outstretched, flanked by Gabriel and a teary Uriel. 

“No,” Raphael breathes. He leans heavily on his Staff, and he says, again, _“No.”_

“What -” Aziraphale begins, but then he Feels it, and chokes to silence on his own tongue. 

They all feel it, when Lucifer is struck down, for he was the first of them all. Even those battling against him give pained moans. But Raphael - and Aziraphale, by extension - stumbles, and falls. 

Not a Fall, but just as painful. 

His Archangel lifts his face from the dust, tear-stricken, and, finding for the first time that he cannot sense his brother, he _howls_. 

* * *

“You know what you need to do,” Michael says, a war-hardened general who’s made the hardest choices of any of them, his prissy sister no longer. 

Raphael swallows the stone in his throat, and nods. 

* * *

Heaven is not the same, after. When one finds out that they can bleed, that they can _die_, things don’t tend to go back to the way they were. Now amplify that by millions and you have a crisis on your hands. And crisis it is. Every day, new angels Fall. Something about war brings disillusionment, especially to those who had lost those closest to them and those who had been somewhere between sides. 

Aziraphale hadn’t picked a side, but unlike the others, he has no plans of Falling. No, his concerns are elsewhere. Of course, he _cares_ about the others. Doubts swim in his thoughts, a whole damn school of them. If it weren’t for those other concerns, those doubts might’ve overwhelmed him and he would’ve Fallen at least a day ago. Instead, he’s spending his time _fretting_. 

He hasn’t seen Raphael since the last battle. Since Raphael had stood on trembling legs, face ashen, and pushed past stunned figures, disappearing in the crowd before Aziraphale had the chance to get up after him. The Fall was either days gone or an eternity ago and he hasn’t even seen a wisp of red hair or a glimpse of golden eyes. Not that he hasn’t tried to find him. He’s asked around, gone to his garden, even considered asking God Herself [9]. He knows he hasn’t Fallen. He can still_ feel_ him and that’s entirely the problem. 

Contrary to popular belief, he was not made to love Raphael. He hadn’t even been made to _like_ him. He’d been formed from him, but God had only given them the chance, really. Raphael had told him how lonely he’d been, before, and Aziraphale suspects that She might’ve simply given him an opportunity. No, he hadn’t been made to love the other angel. It had simply happened. During their talks, their walks through gardens and forests and stars. The stumbling of clumsy feet in an unnamed dance. He’d realized it not with a startle, but with the turn of a key clicking into place in a lock. 

He may not have been made to love him, but he does with every aching fiber of his being. Raphael’s joy is his, those smiles that light up his universe, the soft press of his lips to his skin, the love he knows his Archangel feels for him. Their souls are a tangled up mess, hard to tell which from which. 

He can feel how Raphael is hurting. Can feel it right beneath his heart. This sharp, heavy thing that seems to crawl up his throat and threaten to suffocate him with every breath. He can only imagine what it must feel like for Raphael. 

In the end, it’s Raphael that finds him instead of the other way around. Aziraphale is sitting down by a crystal clear lake, trailing his fingers along the surface of the water with a frown fixed near permanently on his lips. At the beginning (though not the Beginning), Heaven is an eternal show of nature’s beauty. Sprawling fields, lush forests, mountain peaks with the purest snow. It’s gorgeous, most agree. During the War, though, some of that beauty has faded. Space has been cleared for battlefields by way of fire, tall marble structures [10] erected for the purpose of “trials”, though there hasn’t really been any argument about what would happen to those that rebelled. Aziraphale rather likes the forests, those that are still around. This one’s his favorite, surrounding a lake and tucked safely on top of a mountain. He comes here to think, sometimes. Sort out his thoughts. 

He feels him before he hears the sound of hesitant footsteps. Aziraphale turns around fast enough to make his head spin, his heart leaping in his chest as his face stretches into a relieved smile. “Raphael. Oh, I’ve been dreadfully worried…” his words trail off in concern as he sees the expression on the Archangel’s face. Raphael’s hands are set by his sides, his jaw tight and his eyes carefully blank. “Are you alright?” The question is quiet, knowing the answer but needing to ask it anyway. 

There’s a beat. In that beat is a lifetime. Laughter, whispered promises of eternity, tangled legs and hands, and _love_. All of it shifts between them; endless, beautiful, and terrible in its enormity. 

"This can't go on, Aziraphale." 

In that moment, the lifetime shatters, and Raphael will not look at him. His fists clench uselessly by his sides and Aziraphale wants to take them in his own - massage the tension from them, hold them to his heart, but he is too busy staring dumbfounded at his lover to come to him. 

"What - what do you mean? My dear, I know, things have been - rough - it won't last forever, though, you know -" 

The barest start of a nervous chuckle is cut off. "Not - not that. This. _Us_." Raphael’s voice cracks on the last word, sounding like he’s swallowed a heavy stone that’s starting to sink its way to his stomach. 

Aziraphale’s world is tipping on its axis, leaving him unsteady and grasping desperately for some semblance of reality to right himself again. “What are you saying?” Raphael’s words are ringing in his mind as he searches for some sort of key to all of this. It’s_ wrong_. It’s all wrong. Like Raphael is trying to fill in a space that's not meant for him. There’s something he’s _missing_, lost in the translation of Raphael’s uneasy shifting and lack of eye contact. Surely- 

“I’m saying-” he stops. Starts again. Aziraphale can see how his knuckles are turning white against his robes. “I’m saying that we- what we _are_, is Wrong.” 

“Wrong?” Aziraphale parrots, words dying in the twisting fog of his thoughts. 

“We got it wrong. Messed up, somewhere- somewhere along the line._ I_ was wrong. This isn’t- it’s not love, Aziraphale. It never was.” In the moment, Aziraphale doesn’t notice how his eyes fill with tears. He doesn’t notice the shake of his hand, or the soft hitch of his breath. The only thing Aziraphale is aware of is the blooming ache beneath his ribs, making it hard to breathe. He stops trying all together, his own eyes stinging as he leans away like he’s been hit. 

Before he can string his words together, Raphael’s wings unfurl. He opens his mouth, as if he might say something. Maybe _I’m sorry_ or _I didn’t want it to end like this_, but it snaps shut with a damning click. He takes to the air, a gust of wind blowing a cloud of dust around Aziraphale as he’s left to sit in the dirt. 

* * *

When Aziraphale Falls, a real fall this time, he closes his eyes. Stars are rushing past him as he falls through the abyss and he has the faintest thought that he might never see them again. 

_Polaris._

He’d only ever wanted to keep Raphael safe. Heaven holds nothing for him now. 

Well, fine then. If Raphael doesn’t want him, maybe Aziraphale doesn’t want him either. Maybe he’ll be better off without him. Maybe he’ll be better off hating. 

His wings catch fire, a holy sight that rips the air from his lungs in a shattering scream. 

_I’d never let you burn._

* * *

A demon awakes on burning ground. There’s a searing pain on his back as he struggles to sit up. He brings a hand up to touch his face, wet with salty tears. He stands in the embers, looking around. He’s in a desert, he thinks, word coming to him unbidden. It’s night time, the ground cool beneath the soles of his bare feet. He’s naked, skin bared to the moonless sky. He shivers, wrapping his arms around himself with the smallest frown. He feels… empty. There’s something missing, but he can’t put his finger on it. 

In the distance stands what looks to be a great wall surrounding what, he’s not sure. The wind at his back, he starts towards it, some sort of draw he can’t explain. He knows what he is. Fallen. He knows there was Heaven once, that there was love. He doesn’t feel that now. He feels bitterness, low in his stomach, curling and rotting. 

The wall looms before him. He can only go forward. 

* * *

A man finds him, with hair the color of sunlight and eyes of gold that make the demon’s stomach twist itself into knots at their familiarity, a shiver running up his spine. No, that’s not right. Not familiar. Not quite. 

He follows him anyway. 

* * *

1 Alright, so, maybe he got it a little closer than even She gives him credit for. Still. She does find his work to be terribly amusing. [ return to text ] 

2 Uriel was crafted last, and much later and smaller than the others. She was an experiment for how Young the Lord could craft a being. The answer to that experiment is _pretty damn young_. [ return to text ] 

3 Her Stories were terribly… nonlinear things. Very wibbly wobbly, happening now or never or a million years into the future. Her Children loved them nonetheless. [ return to text ] 

4 As for what Her physical form looked like, one might imagine Whoopi Goldberg. [ return to text ] 

5 Unbeknownst to all, Michael had been seeing on the side for _years_ an angel who might in the future come to be known by a name that begins with a B and ends in a whole lot of flies. [ return to text ] 

6 Lucifer would regularly manipulate Raphael with kind words and affection. This is not the first instance. [ return to text ] 

7 Really, he should have seen this coming back when Lucifer withdrew from their games and work and distanced himself. But how was he supposed to know, even then? [ return to text ] 

8 Raphael knew now why they had needed a Healer, and he wasn’t enjoying the revelation. [ return to text ] 

9 God hadn’t spoken since the Fall of the Morningstar and trying to get through to Her was proving to be more difficult than reaching the IRS during tax season. [ return to text ] 

10 There isn’t a proper comparison for these structures in human history. When the humans came along, Heaven started modeling itself after the most boring examples of architecture, eventually settling on the sterile office as soon as it was a thought in someone’s head. Before that, though, there had at least been some kind of imagination. These marble structures were the last testament to any sort of creativity among the angelic hosts. [ return to text ] 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we hope you all liked it! 
> 
> special thanks to mikey sheen if ur reading this you and ur beard are the entire reason this fic came into being. we're but two simple gays.
> 
> we're posting these under pseuds: gayneilman (ronan) and terrybot3000 (ari). because we think we're funny. it's all jokes.
> 
> anyway. we've already gotten [fanart](https://potentiallyevilgood.tumblr.com/post/186772299456/raphael-and-asmodeus-from-raphhaels-and) for this (!!!) which is amazing. we'd like to say if you want to make more fanart PLEASE do you have our enthusiastic welcome to do so! edits, too. just make sure to either @ us or link to the fic or both!
> 
> speaking of, find us on tumblr! @raphhaels (ari) and @monsternobility (ronan)
> 
> on tumblr the kinda blanket tag for this fic is "#every wandering bark" if anyone wants to use that. it's what we're using, anyway, for updates and such.
> 
> insp for part of the intro came from [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xuCn8ux2gbs).
> 
> (sidenote bc ari got this comment on his last fic about raphael: there's a difference between archangels and Archangels in good omens canon, as stated by neil himself. the closest thing to an Archangel in gomens is probably a seraphim, but as it is we've decided to just make them the highest ranking in the angel hierarchy.)


	2. let's get biblical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find the link to the fanart for this chapter [here](https://thornscrowned.tumblr.com/post/187321194210/oops-i-slipped-and-made-another-sketch-for-the)! thank you again to thornscrowned on tumblr/fishycorvid on ao3 <3
> 
> we're currently about to start chapter 7 (show events!) and are around ~80k if anyone's interested. which makes this officially longer than sorcerer's stone, suck it jkr. next posting date is monday, september 9!
> 
> we also made a [pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/darthvcder/the-star-to-every-wandering-bark/) for the fic go check it out we're having fun!
> 
> once again thank u to our wonderful beta, amiel! @bxyhoodbravery on tumblr and ao3 <3

We begin again: In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness. And God called the light Day, and the darkness He called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day. 

In every language, in every translation and new way of looking at it, this story goes much the same. And it isn’t _wrong_, not really, aside from some light misunderstanding on which pronouns to use for the Almighty. She had made the Night and the Day, called them good, and marked the first day of Creation as a success. 

There’s some things these versions tend to skip, though. On the first day, the Fallen burned. The light seared the eyes of the weak, holy and divine. Some of them had golden accents that turned putrid and monstrous on their faces, a reminder of what they were Not and could never hope to be again. 

On the first day, Hell was created too, a necessity as they sought refuge beneath the ground. 

God had seen this, too, and decided it was not _good_, but it was _right_. 

* * *

The Morningstar is different, now. In Heaven, he’d never been able to settle on a form, ever shifting and nebulous as the universe around them. Sometimes he’d have his brother’s red hair, others he’d have the head of a ram or the voice of a lion. But his eyes were always the same, the same ones he’d seen mirrored back at him in the Beginning. Molten gold, like they’d burn to touch. Raphael had never seen the point in vanity, but Lucifer had loved his eyes. As he keeps his name, a spit in the face to the God that gave it to him, so too he keeps his eyes. But for the first time, he finds himself taking a form he thinks he’ll keep. Hair to match his eyes, body lithe and graceful, the picture of beauty and youth. 

There’s work to be done. While She Creates, he is dividing his kingdom. Legions of demons, all terrified and angry, ready to strike back at Heaven as soon as the opportunity presents. _Patience_, he tells them. _Patience. One day, we will, and we will win. But let them have this, for now. We need time._ They trust him, without question, as he knew they would. The truth is, he is not ready for another War. None of them are. They burn bright and bitter, but they’ve lost. If they couldn’t win when they were still angels, they won’t win now. 

It is Chaos. Every day, his legion grows with the newly Fallen [1]. He can feel it each time they Fall, can feel himself grow slightly stronger for it. He seems to be the only one that can Remember and he has no doubt it’s meant to be a curse rather than a blessing. Still, it gives him more of an opportunity. They don’t remember War, they don’t remember friends or made families or Her love. All they remember is hate and hate is a much easier thing to twist into something useful: obedience, loyalty. 

Lucifer is sitting on his throne when a shiver goes down his spine, making him sit up straighter. A phantom echo in his soul, where his brother’s used to rest. The wound is jagged and aching, for all he ignores it, and it’s as if someone’s taken a knife to it and ripped it open again. His hand claws at his chest, marble features twisting in pain. 

In the same moment, he feels another join his host. 

Something’s happened and for a moment he wonders if Raphael finally asked too many questions, but that thought sits wrong. No, it’s something else. 

He ignores the unease as he makes his way up to the surface. He rarely goes to earth, choosing instead to send some of his host upwards to collect their fallen brethren when the time comes. He knows he has to be there for his one, in the same way he'd known it was time for a shift in the cosmic balance. 

When he sees the figure stumbling through the darkness towards the Garden, he understands. He stops, eyes widening slightly. 

_Aziraphale_. 

They hadn’t spoken much in Heaven, not exactly. By the time he’d been created, the wool had already been removed from Lucifer’s eyes and he’d started to draw away carefully from his family. But out of all of them, he’d still hoped that Raphael would see his point of view. He’d hoped to bring him with him, let them rule this kingdom together as brothers. And back then, there was rarely a moment that Raphael was around without his shadow, the kind angel with a fretful disposition and adoration for his brother written clear as day across his face. When he’d met Lucifer, he’d been nervous, hands twisting behind his back as he complimented Lucifer’s creations. 

When Raphael had come to them with his laments, Lucifer had understood. He’d understood in a way their siblings couldn’t and for a moment he’d been sure Raphael would Fall with him for this New thing he called Love. He’d been wrong on that account, but perhaps not entirely. 

In a moment, he’s by the newly minted demon’s side, cloth materializing in his hands as he conjures a robe to wrap his shivering form in. Aziraphale blinks up at him, a flash of recognition and then confusion as he looks into his eyes. Perhaps Lucifer should feel bad, that he has his brother’s eyes, but it only means it’ll be that much easier to mold Aziraphale into a new being like he’s done with the rest of them. Angels no longer, but something new. 

“You- I know you. Don’t I know you?” Aziraphale asks, clearly trying to grasp onto a memory he won’t find. 

Lucifer tilts his head, settling a comforting hand on the demon’s shoulder. “I’m sure you do. You fought for me.” A lie. They come off his lips like honey and just as easy. “Come. The earth is ours now, but we have our own domain as well. I’ll show you.” 

Aziraphale eyes him a moment, like he’s trying to put together what’s wrong. But eventually his shoulders loosen and he nods, leaning into the hand on his shoulder. 

Lucifer leads and the demon follows. 

* * *

The demon gets a new name. They all do. They don’t know their old ones and the new ones fit like gloves, for most of them. _Ashmedai_, Lucifer calls him, appraising. So Ashmedai he becomes, the name feeling odd on his tongue though he has no alternative. 

In the time since his Fall, he’s been trying to find something he’s missing. He tries all manners to fill that void. He tries wandering around Hell, but all that fire and brimstone gets rather boring. The desert isn’t much better. The first time he gets it into his head to try the Garden, he burns his palms on the stone of the wall and pulls away with a hiss. There’s nothing to eat, not yet, but if there were he might’ve tried that. He begins to work on his infernal powers, managing to figure out how to conjure small items and transport himself a couple of miles away. It takes him some time to discover this _other_, though. 

There’s no word for it, not yet. The first is a pretty thing, insofar as demons can be considered pretty, and _powerful_. There’s heated touches, bruises bitten against his flesh, the sting of nails down his back. It’s familiar and completely foreign all at once (_there should be something else here, too, something closer to-_) and it fills the emptiness longer than anything else he’s tried. So he tries it again with another demon, not so ambitious as the last. After that, he tries it again. And again, each time easing the ache just a bit less than the first. 

It goes on like this for some time. Ashmedai is kept busy building Hell, organizing. The tumultuous, volatile nature of it doesn’t sit well with him, but Hell is infectious. His hesitancy to violence is seen as softness, his optimism as naivete. He quickly realizes that showing any sort of weakness is something to prey upon, room for the others to swarm in and _feed_. There’s no room for kindness. And so Ashmedai adapts. 

He gains quite the reputation, in more ways than one. Climbing the ranks of hell is easy enough, once he gets the hang of it. Rather quickly, he’s made his way to Duke of Hell [2] and put in charge of Lust, as if it’s an honor gracefully bestowed. (_Another word; it should be another word, shouldn’t it?_) 

And then there’s the issue of the Garden. The others had quickly learned what he had, singed palms and wings proving the point rather efficiently. It’s causing quite the uproar as they try and figure out how they’re supposed to get in and make a mess of things. Frankly, Ashmedai thinks it’s rather pointless. If She means for it to happen, it’ll happen. If not, there isn’t much they can do to change it. He might be a demon, but he knows enough about Her to know that She at the very least _claims_ to have a plan for everything. He tries to bring this up, once, when the Council is meeting, but he’s merely shot glares and barely concealed sneers [3]. 

“Psh,” says one of the other Dukes, Hashur or something like that, “What are we gonna do, walk right up there and expect to be let in because She wants us to? Use your head, Ashmedai.” 

The others nod in agreement, the conversation quickly moving on to some complicated plot involving Beelzebub’s flies and about how they should all be up there _making trouble_. 

Ashmedai sits back, his brow knitting slightly in concentration. Use his head indeed. 

* * *

In the middle of the night, Ashmedai scurries from Hell on light feet, in quite a literal sense. He’s in the form of a medium sized rat, [4] silver fur and small, red eyes. The desert air is cool at night, much the same as it had been when he Fell. Only now he’s got thick fur to protect himself against the cold bite of wind. It’s not far, really, and he makes it to the wall with hours still left until sunrise. 

If he’s right, and he thinks he is, the other Duke had been onto something in his mocking. If he’s right, he thinks as he approaches the wall, then all he has to do is _expect_ that he’ll find- 

_Ah, there it is._

A small hole between the stones, just the right size for a demon in the form of a rat. If rats could grin, he very well might have. Instead, his whiskers twitch just slightly as he braces himself and rushes up the side of the wall. It still burns even now, his paws aching as he tumbles out the other side, landing in a soft patch of grass. He looks around to make sure he isn’t going to get accosted by any angels before he shifts to his humanoid form, hissing through his teeth as he looks at his hands. They won’t heal for some time, but he pushes past that for now, head lifting to take in the breathtaking sight of the Garden. 

He’s got trouble to cause. 

* * *

**-The Garden of Eden, 4004 BC-**

It’s been an eternity since Aziraphale’s Fall, although it’s been no time at all. There isn’t room to dwell on it, at least that’s what Raphael tells himself to keep on. There’s things to be done. An Earth to fill and Heaven to reconstruct. It’s not much of a surprise when he’s sent to the Garden, although the reasons are. He’d expected he’d be checking in on the Cherubim, as he oversees them, but instead he’s given an entirely different job. An important one. 

When he arrives, things are peaceful. This isn’t out of the ordinary, considering that’s the entire point, but it does make for an unsettling change from the current disarray of Heaven. He wonders why She’s creating something New, when what She’s already got is in no fit state. He shakes his head. It’s better not to think about it. 

It doesn’t take him long to find the humans. They’re walking the gardens, pointing out different plants and animals. Naming them. They turn to look at him, smiling wide as they wave him forward, no trace of fear or shame in them yet. Raphael returns the smile, falling into step beside them. 

“Hello, there. I’m the Archangel Raphael. She’s sent me to, well. To talk to you.” 

“Has She?” the man asks, turning to look at him as they walk. “That’s alright, then, Raphael.” He pauses, seeming to decide it proper to return the introduction. “My name is Adam.” 

“Eve,” the woman adds, squeezing Adam’s fingers between her own. Raphael glances at their joined hands and feels a low, sharp pang in his chest. 

“Oh, I know all about you.” Raphael beams. “We all do. You’ve got us all excited.” Well, not all. And in fact… “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Adam makes what will become the universal head nod for _go on,_ the very first instance of it. “You see, that wasn’t always the case. There were more of us, a while back.” 

“What happened?” Eve asks, and Raphael’s smile turns sad. 

And so, he tells them. It’s what he was sent here to do, anyway. Warn them about Lucifer, how he might try and tempt them. In Raphael’s opinion, they’ve got a choice to make. He tells them as much and he helps them make it on the right grounds, with everything they need to know. He tells them about the War and about the Fall, though he keeps out the parts that make his breath still in his chest and a stone settle in his stomach. 

Night has fallen by the time he’s finished and the three of them have stopped to rest. Adam turns to him, tilting his head to the side. There’s curiosity in his eyes, the same curiosity Raphael knows resides in his own. He prays it won’t get him into too much trouble. “Why don’t you join us for dinner?” 

They sit by a fire. It’s unnecessary for warmth, but the flickering light is nice. The three of them talk and talk and for the first time in what feels like eons, Raphael laughs. He realizes, embarrassingly quickly, that he would be willing to do anything for Adam, Eve, and their subsequent descendants. 

* * *

The snake is rather easy to tempt, sweet thing that it is [5]. In Eden, predators and prey haven’t been invented yet and it’s a simple enough thing for a rat to talk to a rather intimidatingly sized snake. Ashmedai sits beside it on a tree branch, promising it all sorts of things in return if it’ll just whisper a few things to that woman over there, see? He’s been watching her for days and he assures the snake that it’ll work out just fine [6]. 

Ashmedai hides himself inside a bush when the whole ordeal goes down, peaking out to watch as the snake crawls from the tree on its four legs and right up to Eve, starting to whisper all the things he told it to. 

When she bites into the apple, he feels extraordinarily proud with himself. They’d been wrong. Underestimated him, even, and look at this. He’d gone and made it through the wall when no one else could and gotten Eve to eat the forbidden fruit in less than a week’s work. He’s sure he’ll be praised for it, perhaps even given a commendation. What’s more, they’ll listen to him the next time he had an idea or two. 

After God makes Her appearance and the humans are told in no uncertain terms that they’re no longer welcome, Ashmedai shifts back and decides to try one of those apples for himself. He sits himself beneath the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil and takes a bite. 

It really isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. 

* * *

Raphael’s heart breaks for Adam and Eve, when they’re kicked out. To make matters worse, it was his creation to tempt them. He hadn’t designed them with the ability to talk and that had been a perfectly ordinary snake. It had to have been one of the demons, or even his brother himself. But his snake’s legs are still taken away and the humans are unceremoniously kicked from their paradise. 

It’s the least he can do to convince one of the Cherubim to give away their flaming sword. “Are you sure?” they ask, hesitant, eyeing him like _he’s_ the snake. 

“Yes, quite sure,” he assures, waving a hand. “It’s what She wants. Would I lie?” The Cherub eyes him a moment longer but eventually nods. They hand over the sword. It feels wrong in Raphael’s hands, made as they were and not for war. 

He brings the sword to the humans, watching as Adam takes it with a sort of scared determination that Raphael had felt back in the beginning of the War. His heart aches for him. 

“Good luck. Look, I’ll be around. If you need me. None of us’re- we’re still here. She never said anything ‘bout not helping.” It probably isn’t the best idea, but he can’t just leave them on their own. “Now go on, get outta here. You’ll be alright.” He gives his best reassuring smile and Adam nods to him in turn before taking Eve’s hand and turning towards the desert. 

Raphael watches them leave for a moment before turning back the way he came, deciding it’s better to watch from the top of the wall. Better vantage point, where he can intervene if he needs to. Unfurling his wings, he lets the familiar feeling of flight wash over him. 

He settles himself on the Eastern wall, for it is the Eastern gate the humans left through - already far into the horizon. There are storm clouds gathering, not that Raphael knows what they are at the moment. He’ll soon find out enough. 

So distracted by watching Adam and Eve bumble about the sands, he doesn’t hear the heavy footfalls on the ground below, and nearly jumps out of this corporation’s skin when a great beast lands beside him. It is large - even larger than others of its kind, paws as big around as his head, mane falling in curls like ocean waves. Its fur is like moonlight, its eyes like blood. Its teeth are very very big. Newly carnivorous, and all. But even as he looks at it, he finds himself relaxing. It’s not a _lion_, no. This is a _demon_. Wait. No, that’s not any better at all, is it? 

As he looks, the beast shakes its mane, rears strangely - and in a blink, it is gone. Raphael doesn’t have time to consider this for the horror that overtakes him. 

In place of the lion, _Aziraphale _is now standing on top of the wall, hands clasped in front of him as he watches the humans, humming a little under his breath and swaying ever so slightly. He looks nearly the same, though his wings have turned a subtle shade of grey and his robes are a pitch black. Raphael can only stare. It has to be a joke. Some sort of cruel, unfunny joke one of his siblings has decided to play on him. It can’t be_ real_. Any moment now, Lucifer is going to pop out. _Haha, I can’t believe you fell for that, wouldn’t that be something?_

As he stares at Aziraph- the _demon_, he comes to the dreadful realization that it is very much reality. Even from here, his essence is familiar. The blooming ache beneath Raphael’s ribs feels like it’s expanding, threatening to crack from the sudden presence of something it’d been missing for entirely too long. 

The demon’s gaze slides to him and all the differences remain: red eyes slit like a cat’s, blond hair turned a moon silver, a bloody_ beard _gracing his chin and harsh edges that hadn’t been there before. He feels a pang of guilt, wondering what put them there. He braces himself for a reaction, for spitting rage or tears. 

Instead the demon’s eyes crinkle as he gives him a half smile. In it are a glimpse of canines crafted for the_ explicit _purpose of cracking a man’s skull. “Goodness, I hadn’t quite expected that.” He sounds almost gleeful. There are no whites to his eyes. 

“Yes,” Raphael murmurs, too caught off guard to do much else, “it rather went down like a lead balloon.” He’s not even quite sure what he’s saying, nearly gaping. He shuts his mouth with a click, eyes flicking back and forth over Aziraphale’s face, looking for _something_. He comes up a bit blank. 

“Oh, I’ve been terribly rude, haven’t I?” the demon asks, unclasping his hands to hold one out towards Raphael. “Ashmedai. Demon of Lust, Duke of Hell. The pleasure’s yours, I’m sure.” 

Raphael stares at the offered hand like it’ll burn him. For all he knows, it might. Demon of _Lust_? Duke of Hell? That sounds nothing like his Aziraphale, but- he isn’t is he? This demon- he’s not the angel he once knew. Loved. _He doesn’t remember him_. The realization is agony and relief all at once. 

He swallows, finally reaching out to take the offered hand in a halfhearted shake. “I’m- the Archangel Raphael.” It’s quiet, a little bit lost. The situation has no precedents and he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh, or if he wants to cry. He lets go of his hand. 

Ashmedai’s nose wrinkles up. “Bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?” Raphael can only give a half shrug. Ashmedai hums. “Ah, well. That’s beside the point. I was wondering, what did you think of all that?” 

“I think it was a bit of an overreaction, if I’m being honest.” The words fall out of his mouth before he can really stop them, but it’s rather unfair to expect him to have his wits about him just yet. He can’t say he’d never been able to lie to Aziraphale, but it had been damn difficult to do. Now, it’s just impossible. Not after- _everything_. “Putting up a sign saying_ not_ to do something, of course they’re going to do it. Why make it at all?” 

The demon’s eyebrows shoot up, as though he hadn’t been expecting that answer. “I don’t know about that. I’d say it’s rather _ineffable_.” 

“You think it’s, what, _good _that they got kicked out, then?” Raphael asks, momentarily distracted from his internal monologue by complete bafflement. Here’s a demon, believing in ineffability. 

“Now, I never said that. It isn’t a_ good_ plan, but it is _a_ plan, I’m sure of it. She wanted me in the Garden, She must’ve wanted them out of it, for one reason or another. I suppose it’s just our job to do what we can with that. Me, the tempting, you the- what _do_ you do, anyway?” 

“Healing,” Raphael answers, watching him with a mix of curiosity and loss. He shakes his head, deciding it better to look out at the humans instead, where Adam is currently trying to fight off a rather non-demonic lion. “Among other things.” 

Ashmedai hums, seemingly running out of things to say. Above them, there’s a clap of thunder and storm clouds gather. Rain starts to fall, light at first. Of course, these are not things that Raphael has the words for. He’s slightly concerned, watching the sky with a small frown and flinching when the water hits his skin. 

Instinctively, he steps towards Ashmedai. A shadow passes over him and as he looks up for the source, he sees the demon’s wing spread out to cover him from the rain. His heart thumps painfully in his chest and he finds he’s rather run out of words himself. He steps closer, letting himself tuck as close as he dares to that warmth he’s missed. A piece of his soul starts to knit itself back together. He chooses to ignore it. 

“Terribly nice to meet you, _The Archangel Raphael,_” the demon says, turning to smile at him ever so slightly. The rain is coming down in torrents now, water sliding off of his feathers like off of- something else with feathers. He’s sure he’ll remember at some point, but all he can think about is how _bright_ he still shines. 

Together, they watch the first storm. 

* * *

Raphael returns to Heaven, and he is _furious._

"You sent me down there! You knew he'd be there! He doesn't even _remember me!"_

Gabriel doesn’t even deign to look up from his work. "Would you want him to?" 

"You can't do this. It's _cruel-"_

His brother clasps his hands, the very picture of heavenly patience. It’d be more effective if he actually_ were _patient. "Really? See, here I thought it would've been cruel to Fell you and let him watch. Michael disagreed, so. No, Raphael. It isn't cruel. It's a mercy. You could've Fallen with Lucifer, but you didn't. Least you can do is suck it up and thwart one pesky demon. He doesn't even remember you. It shouldn't be that hard. It's not like you're going to-" he pauses to laugh, and Raphael’s heart twinges. "-fall in love with a _demon. _It's better this way." 

_Better this way._

Raphael swallows, unable to keep the disgust from his face. “Better this way. Sure. Right. Of course, Gabriel.” 

Gabriel looks up, now, and offers a grin best described as _smarmy._ “Better watch it, Raphael. We’ll be keeping an eye on you.” 

_We were brothers, once._

* * *

**-Somewhere East of the Garden, 3984 BC-**

The first human children are, for the most part, good kids. It helps that up until now there has been nothing to compare them to, no metric on the scale of good child to bad. They’re kids, young boys - they chase cats and fling mud and have learned that a particular twist of the wrist causes flat stones to skip across water’s surface. This is uncharted territory for everyone involved; child, parent, and Archangel alike. 

Cain is set in charge of their fields, cultivating fruits and grains. Abel decides he’s good with animals and is always seen with lambs trailing after him. Sometimes, there is arguing - nothing that isn’t smoothed over within a day, for they are brothers, and they love each other. 

And Raphael loves them. 

He is reminded of Uriel, when she was young - before everything went tits-up. How she’d play in his garden. How they’d play together. 

He finds his eye drawn, once again, towards Az- _Ashmedai. _With all of him that’s changed, the demon’s smile remains untouched. 

Raphael sighs and turns away, getting back to work. 

_Better this way._

* * *

Everything is so dreadfully_ boring _after the garden. There’s simply no point tempting a married couple to lust - and the two newlyweds are already so busy with each other and their ‘multiplying’ in the first place. Eve knows to expect his wiles, now, so it’s not as if he can get her to sin any other way. And Adam, well, Adam is just a non-starter entirely. He’s learned to wield that cherub’s blade well. 

Ashmedai sighs, mock-forlorn, and watches his Archangel as he interacts with them. The Humans. Her perfect creations. Not so perfect now, and he is a little smug about that. Eve, a hand supporting her belly, nods as The Archangel Raphael speaks to her in low, hushed tones. His hand is on her shoulder. Familiar. Fond. Brushing her cheek almost like a father would his child, some day. Asmodeus slips up behind them, lurking, ever so curious. 

“Thank you,” the woman is saying, quietly. “For warning us. Can’t say we didn’t know beforehand.” 

Raphael makes a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “Well, y’know. It’s not all bad, right? Won’t be. Things’ll work out.” He makes a face. “Probably. And anyways, it’s not like She’s stopped loving you or anything. Yeah. Totally fine. Free will, y’know, it’ll have its merits.” 

The angel doesn’t sound entirely too certain, but Eve is too polite to point that out. 

“And are you sure we should allow… _him_… to remain?” She’s sweet, but far from a pushover, and she points over Raphael’s shoulder at where Ashmedai lurks. 

Ashmedai waves vaguely with a mild sneer. Eve frowns at him and it somehow feels even more damning than the Fall. 

He fakes a look of appropriate chastisement. 

Raphael glances at the demon, and purses his lips, before turning back to Eve. “Oh, him? Sure, y’know, just one demon. Can’t be too hard. What could go wrong?” 

He’ll come to regret those words. 

* * *

Ashmedai often wonders what The Archangel Raphael was still doing, here on Earth. Didn’t he have better things to be doing? Archangel-y duties? Smiting and whatnot? 

He’d seen, just last week, The Archangel Michael descending from on high to lop the head clean off of a fellow demonic agent he himself had been sent to meet with. The blood was black, black, black on desert sand, and he’d very carefully turned and very quickly walked away. It wasn’t running, thank you very much, he did not_ run_. 

His point being, The Archangel Raphael - and isn’t that getting to be a mouthful - could stand to be more like his siblings, and yet here he is hanging around with the humans. Like some sort of… guardian angel. It’d be cute, if it weren’t so pathetic. He isn’t even any _fun_. 

Ashmedai has met a few fun angels already, and caused their subsequent Falls. What else is he to do with himself? _Not_ cause as much mischief as possible? He’d been sent to _make some trouble_. He’d been told to _continue making trouble._ It was up to him the trouble he made, really. Never mind that he found his mind drawn back to this droopy healer every time he brought an angel to bed. 

But that’s neither here nor there, for at current The Archangel Raphael - truly, is all that necessary? seems terribly silly to use the entire title with the angel in question right there; it’s not as if he could be referring to anyone else - is pacing. No, perhaps _pacing _is a gentle word for what’s happening. The poor thing is burning his tracks into the sand below his feet with worry. He looks haggard, the first angel to manifest bags under his eyes. He’d been in and out of the human’s humble little abode constantly the last few days. Ashmedai had even felt just the tiniest twinge somewhere a heart might be, watching the angel mop Eve’s brow with cool water and murmur quiet prayers. It was all he could do, he’d said. 

Inside her makeshift shack, Eve screams. Ashmedai winces in sympathy, and Raphael - that’s _much _easier - flinches mid-step. 

“I don’t think you have anything to pace about, my boy,” the Duke drawls, examining his nails. He’s lounged across a warm stone as comfortably as he can be - which isn’t very. “She’s one of God’s Favored, isn’t she? You’ve done what you can for her. It’s not as if she’s going to die.” 

Raphael doesn’t answer immediately, for he has returned to consoling Adam. He tells the man to bring his wife more cool water and only after seeing him safely off does he speak to Ashmedai. 

“Do you have_ any idea_ what’s going on in there?” 

Ashmedai truly hopes he isn’t about to have human reproduction explained to him. 

“She is - her body is going through astronomical amounts of trauma just to bring a new human being into this Earth that _you_ have tainted. Anything could go wrong, a thousand - a _million _\- things could go wrong. She could bleed out. The child could suffocate. Anything. This is a very _complicated_ process to endure alone -” he’s interrupted by another shriek and his hands twitch towards his staff. “-she’s been at it for _hours,_ and despite it being my _purpose_-” the word is very nearly spit out, a bitterness behind it Ashmedai would like to explore one of these days. “-I _cannot interfere._” 

Oh, okay, he’s just getting a lecture. That’s alright then. Ashmedai passes a hand over his beard tiredly. “I truly do not see the point in worrying.” It’s not as if God would doom Her new species to extinction so soon. 

“Well,” Raphael scoffs, “of course you wouldn’t.” 

He almost looks sad when he says it. Ashmedai hasn’t a chance to ask why, for at that moment, as Adam returns, Eve gives one last monumental cry and it’s joined by the squall of a newborn child. 

* * *

Though neither of them really think about it at the time, they - along with Adam - are the first to experience the anxiety of waiting for a darling loved one to give birth. 

* * *

Ashmedai decides that he hates children fairly early on. Unfortunately, he also learns that they are a wellspring of potential sin; brought into the world complaining about the chill, the light, the sound, wishing to return to the comfort of warm darkness they’d known. It’s easy to tempt a child and Cain, the first child, is no more different or special than any other that would come to be. To have the snot-nosed cretin run up and grab at his legs for attention - even with knowing his nature - it is truly… something. Perhaps he should have taken it as a sign. That the boy was drawn to evil from the start. 

Raphael swooping in and immediately snatching the boy away with a disapproving look should not sting as much as it does. 

It’s not as if he was going to _hurt_ him. 

* * *

In five years' time Adam comes to know his wife, again, and Abel is born. It’s just as stressful as the first time, but at least now they have some idea of what to expect. That doesn’t stop Raphael from biting his nails down to soft pink nubs, however. 

When brought to meet his brother, Cain very nearly drops him. 

* * *

Raphael often finds himself taking care of the boys, mostly when Eve seems too haggard to do so. He wonders, vaguely, if this counts as circumventing her curse. Surely not. This isn’t easing her pain in childbirth. This is just… babysitting. He heals scraped knees with a glance and a gentle touch, works as peace-keeper in their games, allows them to play in his wings. 

Strictly speaking, he isn’t necessarily supposed to be sticking so close to them, but as he’d told them, nowhere does it say he needs to remain distant. So he scoops Abel up into his arms, and he takes Cain’s hand, and he shows them the wonders of this world they live in, and it’s. Something. A start. He brings down his Virtues from on high, and with their help [7], the eight of them instill in the two the Fruits of the Spirit. 

Or something. They’re workshopping the name. 

At every turn he’s reminded of the early days when it was himself and his brother and the Lord. At every turn he does his best to not think too hard about it. 

When Abel is caught with one of Cain’s favorite stones and the elder brother raises his fist in anger, Raphael catches his wrist in his hand just in time with no small amount of horror. “Cain, _no._ We _do not_ hit our brothers. You know better than that.” 

The boy, no more than ten years of age, scowls and snatches his arm from the angel’s grasp. He kicks the dust and stalks away, leaving a teary-eyed Abel and bewildered Raphael. 

He exhales and finds his eye drawn towards Ashmedai lurking in the field, watching the events unfold with red, red eyes. There’s a pang somewhere in his chest. 

Best not let Adam’s firstborn be alone with him, any more. 

Just to be safe. 

* * *

“It’s not _fair,_” Cain complains. Beside him, his lion yawns. 

There is resentment in him, a seed planted by Abel’s birth and nurtured by his brother’s kind disposition and parents’ favoritism. Ashmedai can sense it like an angel can sense love. Out of curiosity, he leans in ever so gently and puts just the tiniest amount of pressure on that sore point, like a touch to a tender bruise 

Cain’s already stormy expression grows into something altogether worse. The demon sighs, long-suffering, and stretches his leonine form out. He’s prepared himself for a long talk. 

“And what is it this time, my boy?” 

* * *

Cain is twenty and helps his father in the fields. The harvest is fruitful. Abel is fifteen and he watches over his flock with a practiced eye. 

They are brothers, and they love each other. 

Raphael comes and goes. Ashmedai lingers on the fringe of this world and takes yet more angels for Hell, thinking of golden eyes each time one Falls. He’s causing a minor crisis among the lower Thrones, who now refuse to stop talking about sex. 

Not that he’d care, if he knew. He’d probably think it hilarious. 

* * *

Winter comes and goes again and their small family survives - thrives, even. They give thanks, as they always do. 

Cain offers fruits and grains he’d grown. Abel offers the first and finest of the season’s lambs and their soft, sweet fat. The only people who see any issue with this are the angels that appear. 

The Book that will tell this story later says that God, when She takes note of this offering, is pleased by Abel’s offering and looks favorably upon him, ignoring Cain altogether. While not false, this is also not entirely true. When Her Archangels arrive bringing with them Her words and favor, and they find some paltry fruits and real fine meat, well. What else are they supposed to be if not righteously miffed on behalf of their Mother? 

Gabriel is not exactly impressed. He’s making that face he does - scrunched in some sort of holier-than-thou disgust as he takes in the scene. This is what the humans have come up with? Really? Can’t do any better? The burning meat smells nice and all, but really, _fruit? Vegetables?_ And not even the first or best of the crop? At least Abel had bothered to kill something for his, since that’s what God had been all about lately. Absolving sin and whatnot. 

“Yeah,” Gabriel says, gesturing at Abel. “That - that’s good. That’ll do. Good job. Keep up the good work, or, whatever it is you humans do.” He claps a hand on Adam’s shoulder, all too uncomfortably familiar, and makes a face that could _almost_ be a smile but mostly seems to be the grimace of someone who truly does not want to be there. “Good talk.” 

He points a finger at Cain, who bears the look of someone experiencing the first snub in history. “You, son of Adam, you need to work on your - thing - a bit. We’re not super enthused. And if we aren’t enthused, you can imagine how unenthused She is.” [8]

He stands back, offers a firm thumbs-up, and then disappears in a crack of thunder. 

It’s a wonder that God chose him as Her messenger, really. Raphael hangs around afterwards to, hopefully, smooth things over. 

“I didn’t think it was that bad of an offering,” he says, mildly. Cain doesn’t look at him, fists clenched at his side. He looks furious. 

He looks _murderous._ Raphael begins to panic, just slightly. 

“You can’t, y’know, let Gabriel get to you like that, he’s - he’s not the best at bedside manner. Really. It’s fine. It’s- I’ll ask Her if it’s fine and She’ll agree with me.” Probably. More likely, She won’t say anything. “Really, I mean, they’re lovely, er, plants. And I know plants, believe me.” 

The elder child, apparently having had enough of this, leaves them all, shoving past his own father in his anger. Raphael’s ramble trails off into silence. 

Sometimes he just gets like this. It’s nothing, probably. 

Probably. 

* * *

“Your man could have handled that better,” Ashmedai says idly. Raphael grimaces. 

* * *

The next few days pass mostly in silence and everything is alright. Ashmedai is nowhere to be seen, nor is any other demon. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. Abel is conspicuously missing, and his flock wanders unwatched. 

Wait, no. That’s not right. That’s not right at all. 

“Cain,” Raphael greets, almost fondly. The young man - for he is a man, now, no longer a boy - looks up at him, squinting in the sunlight, insolence bleeding from every pore. “Cain, where’s your brother?” 

He scoffs, and a chill settles into Raphael’s bones. Something is very, _very_ wrong. 

“What am I, my brother’s keeper?” 

In some ways, Raphael should have known this would come; he is not God but, with connection to the host, he has a certain Sense of events as they occur. Even with that, how could he have known this would be the outcome? 

Now there is nothing left but the quiet horror of an empty space, where once a living thing resided. Raphael feels as though he cannot breathe. [9]

“What have you done, Cain?” 

He doesn’t need him to answer. He can pry what he needs from the man’s mind as easily as breathing. When Cain blinks, the angel is gone. 

He appears in the place he snatched from the mind’s eye and the first thing he notes is the smell. He knows the smell of blood - as a healer, he’s become rather more well acquainted with it than he’s ever really wanted to. And there is so much of it here, soaking into the earth, pooling around Abel’s cracked skull. 

He was only fifteen. 

Raphael stumbles, falls down beside the boy’s broken body, his sightless eyes. Achingly gently, he passes a hand over his face to close them. His boy. _Their _boy. So young - and he is a healer, _the_ Healer, but he cannot heal this. That spark, that soul that made Abel _Abel,_ that’s long gone. 

Gone. Taken. Stolen, before he had yet become a man. Stolen by jealousy and rage and his own brother. Unbidden, his mind turns to Lucifer. 

There is the scuffing of footsteps, the delicate clearing of a throat, and Raphael looks up. 

“Is this your influence, Ashmedai? Turning brother against brother?” 

Ashmedai, faced with the potential wrath of an Archangel, immediately takes a step back. 

“Oh, my dear boy.” He offers a watery smile that tapers off into nothing. “I leave for a few days and everything just- falls apart, I see. You - you must understand, no, no, this isn’t quite… my brand of sin.” 

In his weakness, Raphael almost reaches for him - but this is not the angel he knew, not really, and instead he clenches one fist by his side, and the other in Abel’s tunic. _Better this way._ “Begone.” 

“Raphael, I-” 

_“Leave.”_

He draws himself up, face a mask of Michael’s cold fury. Ashmedai shrinks back further. 

It is time to have a Word with the humans. 

* * *

In the end, it is the Lord who exiles Cain. Raphael is almost too stunned to say anything - it is the first time he has felt Her direct presence in decades and She does not so much as spare him a glance as She speaks the son of Adam’s curse into existence. 

Ashmedai is long gone, though Raphael could swear he’d seen a white little rat (he would assume - and he would be correct - that a lion would be just slightly too auspicious for an event such as this) settled somewhere warm to oversee as the humans buried Abel. He had helped raise the boys as well, in his way. Raphael will leave him to it. 

Eve screams for her sons, one a murderer and the other murdered. 

This all really rather leaves their third child, Seth, with a bit of a complex when he’s born. 

* * *

**-Mesopotamia, 3004 BC-**

The next time they see each other, it is the year 3004 BC, and it is about to rain for a very, very long time. 

Ashmedai is amidst the crowd watching the ship being loaded, head tilted in curiosity. Raphael knows this without looking, for he knows the demon - or used to - and knows he ever loves to be at the center of things going on. 

He almost wonders if he’s there to poke a hole in the ship that God has planned. 

The ship. 

The ship is an issue. It is flawless, of course, for Noah built it exactly according to the specifications that She had given him. The ship, the ark itself, is not the issue. What it’s_ for _is what has Raphael tense. He envisions the waters of the deep rising, oceans and lakes and rivers sweeping all their villages into themselves, the screams… The horror. The_ death._ It’s all well and good to say Her plans are ineffable, but this? Once again, Raphael has doubts. 

He takes a breath. Best not dwell. And so, instead of dwelling, he slips through the crowd like a serpent through grass to settle next to Ashmedai. The demon fixes him with a look, a side-glance, and a quiet nod. [10]

“Fancy seeing you here, my dear boy. Come to oversee the Lord’s New Great Plan?” Ashmedai looks amused; he nearly always looks amused, that smug glint a permanent fixture, and is cheerily popping grapes into his mouth. Raphael makes a face. 

“Could ask the same of you, really.” 

“Well. I’m just here to see if She’ll really do it, truthfully.” Ashmedai glances at Raphael, again. Calculating. “Drowning everyone but his family, and all. I suppose She must be quite upset.” 

_Fuck_. This was a terrible idea. Raphael takes a breath. “Yep.” He looks up at the great ship, and can feel nothing other than horror as children chase animals past them both. “She’s drowning everyone else. Seems more like something your side would do.” 

There are storm clouds on the horizon. Ashmedai tilts his head. “Quite. Even the children.” The demon waves a hand. “Just the locals, though.” 

Oh, the children, _the children._ He didn’t need reminding. What did they do to deserve this? 

“Still,” Ashmedai continues, almost mockingly, “I suppose that’s just_ ineffability _for you.” 

One of the unicorns makes a break for it. Unrelated, Raphael has had an idea. 

High above, the heavens draw close, and the first drops of rain begin to fall. 

* * *

In the end, he’s only able to save fifteen children. Fifteen, out of who knows how many. However much he offers, cajoles, begs and convinces, most parents are unwilling to give care of their children over to a stranger who believed what Noah told him. As he has another door slammed in his face, it’s then that he remembers - She had hardened the hearts of the people against the man. Of course She had. As the floodwaters deepen and people begin to truly panic, Raphael finds himself not above using his own power to soften them again. The kids are_ terrified. _They’re being taken from their parents and the only home they’d ever known. Some of them, the older ones, know what’s happening and _know _they won’t be seeing their families again. 

But it’s better than drowning. 

Best not let Gabriel hear about it. The way he figures, if She didn’t want him doing this, She would have struck him down for his insolence already. Maybe Ashmedai had a point about ineffability after all. 

He holds the youngest close to his chest as he works his miracle - turning away the eyes of Noah and his kin and loading the stowaways into the lowest hold. 

What he hadn’t thought to do was turn away the eyes of the fat, silvery little rat trailing after them. 

* * *

Caring for fifteen children in the musky, damp darkness of a ship full of animals is, as it turns out, easier said than done. Within the first week several are ailing, either from seasickness or an _actual _illness, which is - thankfully - healed easily enough. The youngest demands his full attention; she is no more than a few months old. He crafts bread and fish for them from the firmament to eat. They curl by his side in the night, seeking whatever comfort that can be granted. 

It’s going to be a long forty days and forty nights. In time they will begin to have vitamin deficiencies and he cannot keep on with this many miracles indefinitely. 

Raphael knows Ashmedai is here somewhere- has seen him, sensed him, known his scent. He scatters breadcrumbs for the mice and tries to not think too hard about it. They are both aware of each other. Best keep ignoring. With luck they can pass this flood in relative peace. 

Apparently, Ashmedai had not gotten that ‘ignoring’ memo. 

“Well, isn’t this terribly interesting.” 

The demon is leaning idly, propped up against a pen in which cattle rest. He rests his chin in his hand and looks upon the scene before him - his Archangel, surrounded by children, caught in a lie - caught in disobedience. _Disobeying_ and_ lying _to _God._ Very interesting, indeed. His keen red eyes alight in the bundle clutched close in Raphael’s arms. It could almost be adorable, if it weren’t so bloody tender. 

The angel in question shifts the infant away from Ashmedai’s prying gaze, eyeing him like… well, like one would a predator. Ashmedai leans away, and Raphael’s glare softens into suspicion only. 

“I can explain,” he says. 

“Oh, can you?” This has Ashmedai leaning in again. “I’d love to hear about how one of the Lord’s own Archangels came to save fifteen Mesopotamian children from the floods. Please, enlighten me, Raphael.” 

His angel swallows, looks down at the child sleeping on his chest. Draws a hand over her downy hair. “They did nothing wrong.” 

Very interesting,indeed. Didn’t angels typically Fall for this sort of behavior? 

Two of the eldest children wake, shifting, eyes widening and scrambling away when they alight on this new intruder. Raphael raises a hand to silence them before they can start, then turns back. “You won’t tell anyone, Ashmedai?” 

It’s not a question. Not really. 

“I won’t,” he answers, softly. 

And then, he has an idea. 

“...In fact, Raphael,” he continues, “It’s terribly kind of you, coming on this trip to protect these children further from my _evil wiles_ when you could have been safe in Heaven. I’m afraid you’ve caught me, my dear. Whatever are you to do now with these children if not guide them? It’s not like you could throw them overboard.” 

Raphael blinks, shocked. 

Then, he smiles, and it’s like the sun. 

* * *

Through the weeks, Ashmedai comes and goes - sometimes a rat, sometimes a man, sometimes a lion. He lazes in the dark, tail flicking miserably, as Raphael entertains the children. And entertain them he does - such_ stories _he tells. Ashmedai has never known an angel to have an imagination, yet here Raphael is, spinning this tale without even a_ lick _of truth in it as easy as breathing. The children scream and cackle as he gestures animatedly, each shriek bringing Ashmedai’s gently nursed headache further to the tipping point. 

The story is reaching a quiet point - mostly by virtue of it being late, and most of the kids having fallen asleep. Finally. He sets his great head down, settling his paws over his ears, and heaves a great sigh. He doesn’t sleep, not if he can help it and _especially _not in such a damp place such as this, but he does allow the darkness and rocking of the ship to soften the pain. 

He’s almost - almost - dozing when he feels a tug on his still-flicking tail. He cracks one eye open lazily and twitches the tuft at the end - mostly out of reflex, sure it was nothing more than the hairs being caught in wood, and settles back down. 

Then there’s another tug. A bat at it, even. Ashmedai frowns and twists it away. It’s too late for this nonsense. 

Just as he gets comfortable, there is one last _ferocious_ tug that down-right _hurts_, and a peal of laughter as he lurches upwards with a half-aborted roar. It’s then that he realizes there’s one on his _back,_ _also. Cretins. _Raphael is awake and between him and the kids in moments, a child of his own in his arms. Lucky he was there. 

Not that Ashmedai would have cut them into ribbons. Much. 

“C’mon, now, you two_ know _not to mess with the animals,” the angel warns sternly. The brats don’t even have the sense to look chastened. 

“He’s_ not _an animal,” the girl says obstinately. “You said so, and he looks different all the time!” 

“He can _also _hear you talking about him,” Ashmedai huffs disgustedly, shaking the third child off of his back. The kid slides down with the practiced ease of one used to riding donkeys. Unbelievable. “Look, _now _you’ve woken up the _rest of them. Good job.”_

It’s sarcasm. 

Once Raphael has the children settled back down into bed, he seats himself beside the silver lion. Though he remains silent, _smugness_ practically _bleeds_ off of him. 

“I hate children,” Ashmedai sighs. 

“Fruits of your_ labor,” _Raphael sing-songs. 

He could take the angel’s head clean off of his shoulders like this. As it is, the thought doesn’t even occur to him - he just swats him over the head with a great paw and gives a low grumble. 

* * *

It isn’t long after that ordeal that Ashmedai finds himself regularly piled in children. Sitting between his paws, curled against his belly, sinking their grimy hands into his mane, grabbing his nose, tugging his jowls and pulling his beard. 

He _hates _it. 

“Y’know, you _might _have considered not taking the form of a large cat,” Raphael comments. 

Ashmedai does not dignify that with a response. 

* * *

When finally the ship comes to rest, Raphael and Ashmedai allow themselves a few moments - just moments - in the sun. Raphael will keep the children cloaked, hidden, the gaze of others slipping off of them like water off of a duck’s back. 

Raphael shifts, grimaces, stretching himself out in the open air. His wings had been cramping something _awful _down there, and it truly does feel amazing to have the sun on him again. He had been starting to get even paler than he already is, in that hold. Beside him, Ashmedai lounges. Raphael decides to join him. 

“That could’ve been worse, I suppose.” 

“Speak for yourself, Archangel. I don’t think I’ll be rid of that stench for some time.” The demon picks ineffectively at his tunic. “How are the children settling?” 

“Well enough. They miss their families.” Raphael looks up at Her ‘rain bow.’ Suppose, as natural phenomena went, this one wasn’t too bad. “They’ll rebuild.” 

Ashmedai makes some small sound of acknowledgment, and for a time, there is silence. 

“You know,” he begins. 

Raphael looks over at him, hair tumbling over a shoulder. Ashmedai is very carefully not looking back. 

“I did a terribly evil thing here, my dear boy.” 

“Oh, yeah. For sure.” Raphael quirks a brow, but he’s smiling. “Very evil. You were very, er, wily. I’ll be sure to report it.” 

Ashmedai nods, pleased. It just wouldn’t do to have Hell thinking he did something_ kind._

“Good.” 

* * *

**-Babel, 2904 BC-**

The humans have gotten restless in the century since the flood, the anxiety that it’ll happen again a rather prominent issue. They’ve started building towers. For his part, Raphael thinks they’re pretty neat, from a purely architectural point of view. 

It’s his turn to stand by their Mother’s throne and that’s where he’s been for the last- well, time doesn’t really exist here. Nevertheless, it’s starting to get a little dull. She’s still not talking to him, or really anyone for that matter. So it nearly scares him out of his incorporeal form when She shifts, settling back against Her throne as She watches the humans below. 

And the Lord says, “_Hm_.” 

* * *

Although Raphael had rather thought God to be neutral on the matter, his siblings all decide that one little, “_Hm_,” means She’s immensely displeased. He talks them down from more smiting, getting them to settle somewhere in the middle on mixing up their languages. 

When they aren’t paying attention, he slips down to earth to help out in the aftermath. He’s helping a woman find her children when he hears someone clear their throat. 

“Oh, you. Ever the bleeding heart.” 

Said traitorous heart skips a beat at the familiar timbre of Ashmedai’s voice. 

When he’s pointed the woman in the direction of her family, he looks up at him. He frowns, feeling a heaviness in his chest. “...this isn’t your fault, is it?” But even as he asks, he knows the answer. 

“Humans love wickedness, my dear. They don’t need me to stir it about.” 

Raphael nods, satisfied for now as he comes to stand by the demon. All around them, the humans are in a bit of a panic. It’ll sort itself out. Probably. 

They try and go for a bite, but in all the chaos, all they manage is sitting on a hill eating a few figs. It’s a start. 

* * *

**-Gibeah, 1017 BC-**

The Israelites had wanted a king. Truth be told, Raphael hadn’t seen much of an issue with it. Let them have their king. He’d seen kings popping up all over the place, like daisies. It was only a matter of time before the Israelites decided they liked that idea too. The only surviving Judge was a bit of an old codger anyway, if you’d asked Raphael’s opinion. God, as usual, had not asked his opinion. Oh, sure, She’d talk to her Prophets, but it’d been almost two millennia since She’d deigned to speak to _him_. The other Archangels were in a right state about the entire thing, entirely occupied with the fact that God had decided to let them have a king. Saul, they’d said. Raphael had only popped up for a quick visit and been accosted by his siblings tittering over complaints that Saul wasn’t_ the right one_. When they’d asked their Mother, She simply gave the shrug of one not-shoulder. 

Later, the Son had called Raphael back to the throne room. [11] The warm brown of His entirely too human eyes seemed to light up as He stood up to greet him, beckoning him to follow. As they took a leisurely stroll through the universe, the Son turned to him. “They’re right. He’s not meant to be their king for long. When I go to Earth, I’ll need a form.” At the raised brow Raphael gave Him, He smiled. “Not this one. One of theirs. See what it’s like for them. I won’t remember this.” Raphael wondered if They’d told the other Archangels yet, about all of this. He figured not. The Trinity and their _ineffability_, and all that. “There’s a boy. One day, one of his descendents will be my earthly father. He’ll need to be king. I need you to make sure he ascends.” 

“Right. Just go down and- make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble? Wouldn't want to mess up the Great Plan.” If the Son noticed his tone slipping towards acidity, He gracefully didn't comment. 

The Son laid a warm hand on his shoulder. “Not too much.” 

So, here he is. Following around a shepherd boy turned harp player turned warrior, which apparently makes him quite_ irresistible_. Humans and their fighting. He doesn’t quite get it. Sure, David’s an attractive enough fellow, but the whole pile of heads seems a bit much. Apparently, Saul agrees. For the last few years, Raphael has blended himself into the background as a servant of the palace. Easy enough to keep an eye on things. In that time, he’s noticed the growing irritation the current king has started to harbor for the resident heartthrob. 

Deciding he’d better watch that carefully, he’s worked his way up the ladder, so to speak. He serves the king wine now, instead of changing Prince Jonathan’s sheets. It’s on one of his trips back from the kitchen with a newly filled wine pitcher that he runs into a rather familiar and irritating demon. Literally. 

The wine splashes up against his rather drab tunic, staining the tan cloth a deep purple. “Shit-” he hisses as he regains his balance (though, unfortunately for the angel, not his dignity), finally looking up to find a pair of mirthful red eyes. “And just what the Hell are you doing here?” The words don’t come out with much bite, his lips twitching slightly as his shoulders relax. With a quick look around to make sure there’s no curious eyes, he makes the wine stain disappear with a flick of his hand. 

Ashmedai has his hands clasped behind him, swaying slightly in that way of his Raphael has to admit is slightly endearing. “Oh, same as you, I suppose. Son of God’s great-great-great-great- how many greats was it?- grandfather. Anyway, you get the point, I’m sure. I’m supposed to _tempt_ him.” He sounds positively gleeful. 

Raphael just snorts. “Not to rain on your parade, but I’m pretty sure you’re a little late for that, dearheart.” He nods towards the window overlooking the courtyard. Ashmedai follows his gaze, leaning over slightly to see just what he’s talking about. Sitting out beneath a tree are David and Prince Jonathan. Their heads are ducked together, David’s hand on the prince’s knee and eyes bright. They look like every disgustingly affectionate couple since Adam and Eve first came up with the word _pookie_. 

Ashmedai’s nose wrinkles slightly at the display, leaning back. “Right you are. Well, I’m sure I can get him into _some_ kind of mischief.” 

“Oh, _don’t_. Come on, look at him. Besides, he’s got enough trouble a’brewin’ as it is. Don’t need you going and muckin’ it up more.” 

“Trouble?” the way Ashmedai’s eyes light up should be concerning, but instead make Raphael’s stomach twist into a rather pleasant knot. 

“Mm. King Saul wants to kill him. Not ‘cause of the whole- son thing. No, seems people just _like _him too much. Don’t want that when you’re king,” he muses, watching as David reaches up to tuck a stray curl behind Jonathan’s ear. 

Ashmedai’s eyes widen ever so slightly. “Well, that just won’t do. If he dies now, we won’t get any chance to corrupt him at all!” He sounds rather put out. Raphael suspects it might have less to do with corrupting and more to do with a young man dying a needless death before his time. He’s not going to mention it. “It seems we’ve got the same prerogative then, my dear boy.” 

Raphael eyes him warily, but nods after a moment. “Guess so.” When Ashmedai smiles at him, he gets the impression he’s just agreed to something he’s going to regret. 

* * *

Things go rather downhill after that. David lives, but Jonathan doesn’t. Raphael had swayed Jonathan to stay by his father’s side and calm his temper towards David while Ashmedai had tempted them into clandestine meetings behind the king’s back. They’d given them their privacy for that, but Jonathan had told Raphael once that he loved David with his very being. Once David was king, he’d said, things would be alright. They could be at peace and his father wouldn’t be able to bring them harm. Raphael had believed him. Believed in the two of them. 

At the end of it, he thinks Ashmedai had the right idea after all. At least they’d had some time together, before it ended in bloodshed [12]. They watch David ascend the throne, a determination in his eyes hiding a sorrow so deep Raphael knows it’ll never quite go away even when he’s old and grey. He’d felt that same sorrow, millennia ago as he’d adjusted to life without _him_. 

Raphael and Ashmedai stand towards the back of the crowd, Raphael watching with a frown and Ashmedai with something like pride. Afterwards, they walk the streets of the city, both in the sort of limbo that comes when you’ve just finished a majorly important task at work and you’re still waiting around for the next memo. 

Ashmedai is turning a plum over in his hand, a little knit between his brows. “You know, I think they might’ve been happy. If we hadn’t stepped in. They would’ve married lovely women with whom they could have many lovely children they could’ve raised together. Happily ever after. Near as it can get.” 

Raphael shifts uncomfortably, hands twitching by his side. “I suppose they might’ve,” he offers hesitantly. “But it’s all a part of the Great Plan, isn’t it?” He pauses, something catching in his throat and an ache settling deep in his chest. “First loves’re never easy, I’m told. But David’ll get on just fine. He’s got spirit.” 

Ashmedai hums like he doesn’t quite believe that, taking a bite out of his plum. “If you say so. If I were him, I’d rather be happy than worry about some Great Plan.” 

_Would you?_ Raphael wonders, not daring to look at the demon for fear his feelings would be written plain as day across his face, and that wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have. “Oh, please. If you were him, you wouldn’t stick around long enough to have some epic romance. You’d be off with a dozen young men and getting up to as much mischief as you could.” 

“Mm, well. Perhaps we have more in common than you’d like to think, then. I hear he’s quite good-” 

“You _didn’t_-” 

“-but I’m only telling you what I’ve heard.” 

“You’re horrible.” 

“Thank you, my dear.” 

They walk through the marketplace together, bickering back and forth. As they walk, Ashmedai settles a warm hand on the small of Raphael’s back. The angel doesn’t pull away. In the palace, a young man mourns. 

* * *

1Even with Day and Night, time hasn’t quite sorted itself out yet. It’s unimportant, since the humans haven’t been created yet to need time. The seven days of creation aren’t exactly literal, with a few infinities between the days until She makes Adam. [ return to text ] 

2These are the days before Catholicism. The concept of Seven Deadly Sins and princes to rule them wouldn’t come around for a few thousand years and it would indeed cause a round of promotions and brand new positions for everyone and he will become a Prince of Hell due to his dominion over Lust. As it is, there’s just Beelzebub as the right hand and a whole bunch of Dukes, Kings, and Presidents with their myriad of sins. [ return to text ] 

3In these early days, Heaven and Hell are still on rather stilted terms. There’s no backdoor deals and Hell is still smarting from the Fall. While in time they’ll come to accept the Great Plan, no one wants to hear a word about it just yet. [ return to text ] 

4Demons and Angels both have various animal forms indicative of their personality. Raphael’s, for example, was a serpent. Asmodeus’ rat form was merely the easiest to take and least obtrusive - he also sported a lion’s head, and it is the lion’s head that seeps into his physical corporations most easily. [ return to text ] 

5This might be, in part, due to the fact that the snake is one of Raphael’s creations. Ashmedai’s voice is somewhat familiar to the creature, who had taken to lounging around its creator before it got put in the Garden without much further ado. [ return to text ] 

6Ashmedai would do the tempting himself, but he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty, so to speak. Besides, as far as dramatics go, a snake is a much more artful execution than a rat and he’d rather felt a lion would be a _bit much_. [ return to text ] 

7His Virtues had been _overjoyed_ to finally engage in miracleworking. Humility had thought the humans just positively _charming_ \- but they’d had difficulty with Cain in the humbleness regard. And also in the charity area. And when showing him temperance. And - [ return to text ] 

8As a matter of fact, She wasn’t unenthused at all. This was Gabriel projecting. [ return to text ] 

9Not that he needed to breathe, but he’d rather gotten into the habit. It helped put those that _did_ need to breathe at ease. [ return to text ] 

10Ashmedai wasn’t entirely sure where they stood with each other, this angel and himself. Better aloof than sorry. [ return to text ] 

11Back in those days, before Metatron, the Son had sometimes spoken on their Mother’s behalf. The Holy Spirit was rather busy doing Holy Spirit things. [ return to text ] 

12In the books of Samuel, the story goes that Jonathan died by his father’s side, killed in battle. David mourned, as most humans lovers do. They’d been bound by a Covenant in front of God, their love deeper than any woman according to David. This works in direct contradiction to the Christians’ claim that homosexuality is condemned by Her. In fact, She’d been rather fond of David and Jonathan. [ return to text ] 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello hello! we're so excited for u guys to finally meet our son (modi). 
> 
> first thing's first lucifer is not benedict cumberbatch bc fuck that, he's jude law in wilde (1997) no we do Not take criticism. satan is a pretty twink and that's how life is sometimes. he's also the third major character in our ficverse but no he doesn't show up much at all again. just know he's there. 
> 
> speaking of modi though, the name thing! as a sort of parallel to crowley/crawly & also bc ari loves the name ashmedai, we went w ashmedai for this first bit. ashmedai was the spelling of his name in the talmud (which didn't exist at the time but just go with it). before that it was aēšma-daēva but that doesn't have a ring to it, you know? then it got tossed and turned around until religion ended up at "asmodeus", which is where it'll stay for the rest of this fic after this chapter.
> 
> credit for the hc that crowley saved the kids on the ark is [this post!](https://rainydaydecaf.tumblr.com/post/185677767164/aziraphale-hanging-out-on-noahs-ark-watching-the)


	3. bible II: attack of the clones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so !! the chapter count. it changed bc originally we planned on keeping the show content chapters a lot shorter than they've ended up being, so we've had to split several of them. it's subject to change again but we'll see.
> 
> next publishing date will be september 23, 2019!
> 
> our thanks again to our beta, amiel <3 @bxyhoodbravery on tumblr and ao3 
> 
> the fanart for this chapter can be found [here](https://thornscrowned.tumblr.com/post/187768037630/inspired-by-chapter-three-of-the-star-to-every)! thank you so much to thornscrowned on tumblr/fishycorvid on ao3. seriously. your art is gorgeous thanks so much for letting us put it in here :')
> 
> now the exciting part, this is the chapter w smut. however, if you're uncomfortable with that, you can skip the 41 ad section entirely, or read until the second break, which ends with "It’s a wonder they make it to a room at all." the next break after that, beginning with "Angels aren’t meant to sleep." is the safe point to begin reading again.

**-Jerusalem, 650 BC-**

“I’m _telling_ you, they’re not the same thing, Ashmedai.” 

“It’s Asmodeus now, didn’t I tell you? Anyway, yes, I know. On a technicality, cows and cattle are two different topics, but-” 

“_Asmodeus_? Why-” 

“It’s what the humans have started to call me and I have no intention of arguing with them- Let’s not get off the topic at hand. Cows-” 

“You’ve got to be specific! Can’t go around saying cows when you mean cattle, it’ll just get all confusing. The boys aren’t cows, so don’t you mean them too?” 

“Oh, good lord, Raphael. The point gets across well enough, no one’s going to mistake the meaning of _cows_-” 

“They’re _different_, ‘s all I’m saying.” 

The difference between cows and cattle is minimal at best, but Raphael has a point to prove and once he’s decided on a point, there’s very little that can sway him from the topic. Not that Asmodeus hasn’t tried time and time again, but that rather isn’t the point. The point of their arguments tends to be the argument itself. This might be for any number of reasons, each of which they both ignore in favor of pretending it’s their God (or Satan) given duty to defeat the other in rousing rounds of banter. 

Another one of their tendencies is that of eating together. There’s not much in the way of restaurants in the area [1], but they make do by picking up food from whatever market’s nearby and finding a quiet corner to set themselves in amongst the bustle of mankind. At the moment, they’re sat quite close considering the cramped style of the time, sandals bumped against each other beneath the table. It might be romantic, were it not for the fact that both of their sandals had seen things no proper gentlebeing would discuss in detail. Raphael had finished his meal at least ten minutes prior and is now sitting with his chin in his hands, watching the demon enjoy his bowl of soup and freshly baked bread. 

Asmodeus primly wipes at the corner of his mouth with a cloth from his belt, huffing. “Well, whatever they are, my point was-” 

Raphael never gets to hear what Asmodeus’ point had been, as the demon’s eyes go wide and he interrupts himself with an all too calm, “Oh, _bugger,_ someone’s summonin-” and then there’s a wide empty space that had once been occupied by a Duke of Hell, the air closing with a resolute _pop_. 

The Archangel blinks at the spot where his friend had been, eyebrows shooting up. In their over 3000 years on Earth, that has never once happened, though now that he thinks about it it rather should have at some point. 

_Well, shit_, thinks the angel of the Lord. 

* * *

**-Rages, 650 BC (several hours later)-**

Sara is a rather nice girl, Asmodeus decides from his spot perched on the edge of her bed while she tells him her story. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, interjecting only where he’s needed. The story goes like this: 

When she was ten years old, Sara had come to the rather distressing realization that she was not at all interested in boys. She’d come to this revelation when she’d noticed how nice one of friend’s hair was and how much she’d very much like to run her hands through it. Of course, this wasn’t something one would go about broadcasting at the time and she’d resigned herself to a life of polite boredom. But now that she’s actually betrothed, she can’t muster up the will to go through with it. The man her father’s chosen would better belong in a crypt and she says he smells of dung. Asmodeus can only guess that it must be true. In a last ditch effort for some sort of divine intervention when prayers hadn’t worked, she’d summoned him. 

Well, not her fault. No handy books on demonology back then, were there? She hardly could’ve been aware that he’s the demon of lust and rather _not_ the sort of demon to deal with this situation. Still, he can’t help but feel for her plight. Demons don’t have restrictions on who they’re to be lusting for, but he can understand well enough. After all, he’s not much for women when it comes to carnal activities and he’s infinitely glad he isn’t a human for that (among other things). 

“I’ve got just the thing for it,” he tells her with a smile when she’s finished with her tale, swaying back slightly as she drags him into a tight hug. 

“Oh, thank you- I didn’t think anyone was listening-” 

Gently, he pries her off of him, not one for such a lack of personal space, although he does give her a light pat on the back as he does. “Yes, well. They’re quite busy up there. Better luck with us, I’d say.” 

* * *

By that evening, there’s an incredibly confused elderly man wandering what will later become Australia when just seconds ago he’d been talking to a nice young man with a mop of silver curls and the strangest red eyes. 

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Raphael to find where Asmodeus had gone off to. They’re rather attuned to each other, though he can’t tell you if that’s from the over 3000 years spent together, or the… _other thing_ he doesn’t really want to think about. Either way, he’s usually aware of where Asmodeus is, on some level. It goes a bit fuzzy around the edges whenever Asmodeus is _beneath _or he’s _above_, but when they’re both on earth it’s an unwilling awareness in the back of his mind. Sort of like when you know someone’s looking at you when your back is turned. 

He finds him in the city of Rages, one of the Medes’ cities. He knows it’s the right place when he overhears two servants talking about the rather strange disappearances going on lately. A young woman has been wed to several different men and on each wedding night, they disappear without a trace. The servants are whispering of devils and Raphael sighs. 

By now, Asmodeus’ rat form is nearly as familiar as his humanoid one or even the silver lion that so rarely made its appearance these days. So when he feels something scampering up the back of his leg and up onto his shoulder, he only gives a mild start, turning his head slightly to meet those inquisitive red eyes. 

“Well, that certainly took long enough,” says the rat. If anyone were looking at the moment, they’d get _quite_ the sight. Raphael snaps his fingers, carefully drawing attention away from the both of them as he sets himself down at the edge of a well. 

He leans back, hands braced against the stone. He snorts, “Oh, well, _excuse me_. Not like I had to track you down or anything. Why are you a rat, anyway?” 

“Haven’t you heard? There’s a _demon _in town. I’m afraid a stranger with red eyes is exactly the last thing I need to be, at the moment. Can’t end well, can it?” 

Raphael hums his agreement. “Spose not. So. You got summoned? What’s that about?” 

“Ah, that. Poor girl wasn’t have any luck with praying, can you _imagine_?” Asmodeus is feigning surprise. Raphael reaches up to flick at his tail lightly in reprimand, though the action is almost fond. “She doesn’t want to get married. Her father won’t listen. She wanted me to take care of the issue.” 

“...you don’t mean to tell me you’ve _murdered _those men I’ve been hearing about-” 

“Ye of little faith! Of course not. I’ve just- sent them away.” Raphael gets the impression that if Asmodeus weren’t a rat at the moment, he’d be waving his hand in a manner that suggests he has absolutely no idea where he’s sent them. 

“Sent them away. Right.” He’s skeptical, but since the Ark, he’s come to trust the demon. Not as much as he might’ve, once, but more than he should. He knows this, knows how bad an idea it is, but he can’t help it. In all their years, Asmodeus hasn’t really done anything to warrant his distrust at all. Sure, he causes mischief just about everywhere he goes and he’s had to ward off more than one less than subtle attempt at seduction, but he’s rather harmless as demons go. 

Asmodeus jumps from his shoulder, down to the dusty ground again. When Raphael gives him a questioning look, he stands up on his hind legs a moment. “Don’t you want to meet her? She’ll be _thrilled _to meet an angel, I’m sure.” 

* * *

Unfortunately, it also doesn’t take Heaven long to catch up. Raphael has only been in Rages a few days when he hears the tell-tale _crack_ of thunder and sees the flash of lightning that means his brother has come bearing one of his messages. Raphael has been staying at a local inn, nothing much to look at. Still, he can’t help the stab of annoyance as Gabriel’s arrival knocks over a plant he’d had sitting up on the table. 

“You know, you could do with figuring out how to knock once in a while,” he grumbles, reaching up to right his plant again. 

“Why?” Gabriel sounds genuinely clueless. As usual. He continues on before waiting for the answer, “I have a job for you. Weird, it’s actually- well, right here. Don’t know how you didn’t notice. Have to keep a sharper eye, Raphael,” he tells him, in the same manner a tired high school coach long overdue for retirement might tell his team to _try a bit harder. _“Anyway, that demon Ashmedai-” 

“Asmodeus, actually.” Gabriel looks at him in bewilderment. Raphael clears his throat, fiddling with a leaf on the plant. “Er. That’s what they’re calling him now. Or so I’ve- so I’ve heard.” 

“Whatever. He’s been up to something. Misplacing a bunch of perfectly decent men for no reason. Absolutely torturing this poor girl. Sandra, or something, I think. So. You know. Stop that. I’m sure you can think of something.” 

Raphael blinks at him. He wants to ask if Heaven’s noticed that for one, those men are all old enough to be Sara’s father, and for another she has absolutely no interest in men at all. He thinks better of it. “Right. I’ll get to that, then. Great seeing you.” It’s a rather pointed invitation for Gabriel to leave. 

Unfortunately, his brother doesn’t take it, and Raphael spends the next few hours trying to entertain him while working through the beginnings of a plan. 

* * *

It’s a rather ingenious plan, if he says so himself [2]. For the last few months, Heaven had been getting prayers from a rather pious man named Tobit who had gone blind and decided to pray for death. It was one of those prayers they rarely granted, or rather pointedly ignored. The poor sod had spent his whole life doing everything he thought holy and no one had bothered to send him so much as a thank you. He also happens to be distantly related to Sara’s father and, as luck would have it, has a son around the same age who just so happens to prefer men. 

On his deathbed, he’d asked his son to go to Rages to collect a debt, to get him a bit of a headstart on the marriage department. Raphael had met the boy on the road on his way to Rages, introducing himself as Azarias and learned that the boy’s name was Tobias. After a few miles, he’d managed to get out Tobias’ entire sad story and told him he knew the _perfect _solution to his problem. 

That had been hours ago and their journey was going rather smoothly, until they stopped for the night at the river Tigris. Tobias had gone to wash his feet and nearly gotten them bitten off by a big old fish. Raphael quickly caught the bugger, getting a rather starry eyed look in return that he carefully ignored, tossing the poor thing Tobias’ way. 

“Here. Might as well eat it. Save back the heart, gall, and liver, though. Could use those,” he’d said on a bit of a whim, the rest of the plan starting to unfurl. 

It’s as they’re cooking the meat that he realizes the perfect opportunity for them. He doesn’t really _need_ them, but it’s for the show, which is really what this whole thing is about. He nods to the heart and liver where they’ve been salted and packed away. “You know, those are awfully good for gettin’ rid of demons. It’ll drive ‘em right out. They _hate _the smell.” 

Poor, trusting thing that he is, Tobias brightens up a little. “Really? You think we could do that for Sara?” 

So Raphael might’ve embellished a little. Told a tall tale of a demon tormenting a poor girl, driving off her husbands in droves. It’d be good for the paperwork and he imagines for Asmodeus’ reputation anyway. 

He hums. “Well, we’ll see.” 

* * *

As it turns out, he hadn’t been wrong about demons disliking the smell of burning fish. He might feel bad, if the whole thing weren’t spectacularly hilarious and if Asmodeus hadn’t been told to expect something of the sort. Sara and Tobias have been married, but before they’d gone to their marriage chamber (where they’d likely sit on the bed all night and swap amusing stories, rather than actually break the thing in), he’d given them some rather specific instructions involving the liver, heart, and a ridiculous amount of prayer. 

Raphael is waiting outside when the demon comes rushing from Sara’s house, looking like he’s been subjected to something truly detestable. 

“Fish? Was that necessary?” He’s waving his hand in front of his nose, much to Raphael’s amusement. His arms are crossed over his chest, a bit of a smirk on his face. Asmodeus eyes him warily when he sees it. “What?” 

“It’s not over yet, dearheart. See, I told my _wonderful _brother I’d be binding you in Egypt. Best get to it.” 

* * *

Asmodeus shifts against the heaven blessed ropes tying him to a rather lovely acacia tree. Beneath him is a rather complicated sigil drawn in the dirt, keeping him firmly in his place in case the ropes fail. “You know, I don’t think this is what binding means.” 

“Well, have _you_ ever bound a demon?” 

“Mm, fair point.” He watches as Raphael tightens one of the knots with a little frown. Asmodeus smirks up at him. “Rather kinky, isn’t it?” He bats his eyelashes for good measure, and gets the joy of seeing a pretty blush run all the way up to Raphael’s ears, as red as his hair. 

Raphael opens his mouth in what’s sure to be a retort, but before he can, there’s a boom and something like a sizzle, making Asmodeus jump and his eyes go wide as an angel appears. This must be the Archangel Gabriel, then. They’ve never met in person and after the lightning fades, he’s left rather unimpressed. He looks like he finds counting sticks great fun. Can’t find the family resemblance at all, really. 

His angel turns, letting the bit of rope fall as he gives his brother a clearly fake smile. Hm. It’s nothing like the ones he usually has for Asmodeus. He’ll have to look into that, later. For now, he just pretends to glare ruefully at the angels for having thwarted him. 

Gabriel claps his hands together, beaming. “_Nice_ job, Raphael! Can’t say I thought you had it in you.” Asmodeus’ eyes narrow. He decides he rather dislikes Gabriel. “You’re going to discorporate him now, right?” 

Raphael shifts. “Definitely. I’ll- smite him, immediately. He’ll be- very, very smote. Just- got to get these bindings just right, you know? Make him, er, sorry, and all that. He won’t be bothering anymore brides for a while.” 

Gabriel nods, clasping his shoulder. “Sounds great. You know what? I think you’ve got some potential, Raphael.” Raphael looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. “Right, well, I’ve got to get back to Heaven. Important duties, you know how it is. Keep up the good work!” 

And just like that he’s gone, leaving a rather annoyed looking angel and a demon who’s wondering how the two of them can possibly be related. With a snap of Raphael’s fingers, the ropes fall from his body and the angel breaks the binding sigil with his foot. A shiver runs down Asmodeus’ spine at the small display of what he’s sure is a limitless well of power and he stands up, brushing off his robes as if he’d let dirt on them. 

“Lunch?” 

* * *

**-Jerusalem, 3 BC-**

Mary is in a bit of a pickle. 

You see, she’s engaged, due to be wedded. He seems like a nice man, too, but nice or not, she didn’t really know him, and, well. What’s a girl to do, you know? She had a life before this betrothal. She has people she loves. She’s still young and hasn’t even gotten to sow her oats yet! 

So, Mary does a bit of a bad thing. Not bad, not _really_, for a woman has a right to do as she pleases with her body, but still. It’s not like she _means_ to get pregnant. So not bad. Maybe reckless. Certainly foolish. She could be stoned for this. 

So, as soon as she discovers her condition, she prays. She prays as no one had ever prayed before. 

She prays, and she’s heard. 

And the Lord thinks it to be_ terribly_ amusing, and decides to play along. 

* * *

For the first time in some 4000 years, God finally speaks again. 

She gathers Her Archangels to Her Throne Room and throws Herself something of the_ first coming out party_ where She informs them She'd gotten a human woman pregnant and they'd all be meeting their new half brother soon. 

As coming out parties go, it’s a rather dull affair. They don't even have champagne. 

“Gabriel,” She says, and Her Messenger sits ramrod straight. “You will go to Joseph and tell him. Tell him to not dismiss his wife. Tell him…” She hums, consideringly. “Tell him that this child is born of My Holy Spirit, and that he shall call His name Jesus. Go, now.” 

Overall, She thinks it’s rather serendipitous. Joseph is from the line of David, who She had chosen long ago. She’d rather expected to have to go about with miraculous conception, but the human woman had surprised Her. Her Son’s spirit will simply go into a human child. She can figure that out. 

It’s all going to Plan. Sort of. Well, She can’t complain. 

* * *

Suffice to say, Joseph ends up not divorcing his new wife. 

They go to Bethlehem together for the census, Mary on the back of a donkey, and when they arrived they found no inn to rest in. This story is known. 

What isn’t known was that both sides were all up in a tizzy, growing more agitated the closer it came to Her Son’s birth. Asmodeus is assigned to Bethlehem, to close up inns and taverns and any place the mother could find refuge at all. He knows just the way to do it. And really, what’s an orgy or two, among strangers-turned-friends? Or even three? He’s doing his job, really, and that’s all that matters. 

Through a minor miracle, the girl and her husband end up finding a manger to stay in, anyways. If asked, he’ll say he had nothing to do with it at all. 

It’s better than nothing. 

* * *

**-Bethlehem, 4 BC-**

It’s not a dark and stormy night. It’s not even chilly [3], and the stars shine clear and bright [4]. When the boy is born, Gabriel is sent again to the earthly parents. 

This time, he brings Raphael. Mostly for emotional support. 

Gabriel appears to them both, Raphael in tow. In the latter’s opinion, the two humans seem terribly small and frightened, and that just won’t do. Stress is bad for a baby. Best say something before Gabriel makes it worse. 

“Oh, don’t worry about us,” he says, lamely. Gabriel shoots him a perplexed look, which is met with a shrug. _They’re scared. What else am I to do?_

“Yeah, sure, ‘Be Not Afraid,’ anyways.” Gabriel shoots one of those disconcertingly gigantic smiles at the pair and claps his hands together. “Congrats! I bring you, er, _tidings_ of _great joy,_ and things! You’ve given birth to an entire Son of God! And you didn’t even manage to get sepsis from this... dingy little manger. Real good work, Mary, really.” 

The girl mostly looks perplexed. She glances at Raphael, questioningly, and he grimaces. _Gabriel._

“Yes, er, well,” he’d really like to give them both a onceover to make sure everything is as it should be, but failing that, he mutters a tiny miracle into existence to ease any infection she may get. “He’s going to be something really special.” 

“Oh! Yes, right, of course. Thank you, Raphael.” Gabriel beams, but there’s precious little behind it. “He shall be called a Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace, the…” 

He goes on, and on, and on. 

His brother truly, truly doesn’t know how to talk to humans. 

* * *

“I think that could have gone a lot worse! I didn’t need you there after all,” he proclaims, afterwards. Raphael sighs. 

* * *

Raphael keeps an eye on this young man, as time passes. He is something really special, after all. Not that they [5] had ever thought otherwise - they knew Her plans for him. Still, He was their brother, in a way. A very roundabout sort of way. And Raphael has always loved their family, from the moment they first met. They counsel the young man as best they can. 

They never do get the chance to tell Him about the star they crafted for him at his birth, but they have a feeling He knows about it already. 

For a time, they go without seeing Asmodeus - it’s very busy, in those days, plenty of work to be had and done, lots of preparation and scene-setting for Her Son’s feats and all. 

However, Asmodeus is also kept busy. He’s sent to curse a few people, harden some hearts, turn some eyes from God and towards Lust. He knows Beezlebub’s Legion is banished into a herd of pigs, and that must have been terribly embarrassing for zir. 

He is also, on one memorable occasion, sent to tempt Jesus Himself on the mountain. He appears in the shape of a lion - thrilled by the sort of symmetry it presents (something about the Lion and the lion, the sun and the moon, night and day) - and settles down as easy as a kitten. 

The Son of God takes one look at him, and it’s as if He’s Known him from the very start, known his soul, known every flaw and quirk in a way no one ever has. It is, to put it mildly, incredibly disconcerting. To put it accurately, it sends a shiver down Asmodeus’ spine the likes of which he has never felt before and yet, also, leaves a warm sense of Something deep in his chest. He doesn’t particularly enjoy it. 

But he has a job to do, so he shows this kind young man all the cities of the world, all the things He can do with His power. They sit down and talk for a very long time, and then Asmodeus is rebuked for his efforts. One cannot say he didn’t try. 

He leaves Him on that mountain feeling… not uneasy, and _certainly _not pitying. 

Pity for the Son of God is a very undemonic thing to feel, you understand. 

* * *

**-Golgotha, 33 AD- **

And indeed, all good things must come to an end. 

Raphael had ever been the softest of the Archangels - unused to pain, to torment, death turning their stomach. The sight and smell of blood tends to make them just slightly faint. They _care_. They care about the creatures around them and the suffering humans felt was as Raphael’s own. It is said that angels can sense the love surrounding a person or place, and this is true, but as Her Healer Raphael is especially tuned towards _hurt_. It is their purpose to ease it. It’s what She _made _them for. 

And there is much, much hurt to be had in the world. This is one hurt with which they can not interfere - have explicit orders not to, in fact. 

For Christ must bear the sins of every man woman and child living and dead, and every man woman and child to come, et cetera et cetera ad nauseum. They still don’t understand _why._

They must have said so out loud, because suddenly they aren’t alone. 

“It’s _ineffable,” _comes the mocking sneer beside them. Raphael closes their eyes, damp with tears. 

“Don’t start that. Not now.” They look up at the hill, where even now Her Son preaches to the petty thieves beside Him. “All He said was to be kind to one another.” 

“That would do it.” Asmodeus tears his gaze away from the grisly sight to take in the angel beside him. “Did you know him well, my dear?” 

They sniff, picking at the torn seam of their clothing. Maybe they had gone a little overboard with the grieving attire. “He’s my brother, Az- ...Modeus. Er, sort of.” They wobble a hand half-heartedly and sniff again. “We’re all siblings. You know how it is.” 

“Of course.” 

He almost sounds sad. Indeed, his face could almost be described as _regretful_. Asmodeus reaches out for their arm, but, thinking better of it, he draws his hand back before it could make contact with so much as Raphael’s sleeve. “Terribly sorry, my dear, really.” 

Then, he lightens. Raphael doesn’t look. 

“I met him once myself. Lovely young man, you know. He rebuked me for tempting Him.” When the demon laughs, half-heartedly, it’s alone. A quiet sigh leaves Raphael’s lips. 

Asmodeus sobers. This time, when he reaches to take their arm, he doesn’t draw away. The contact is warm. Steadying. Their traitorous body leans into it as though a snake to its charmer. 

“Come, my dear. I think I know exactly what you need.” 

* * *

When he’d offered to take Raphael drinking in the past, the Archangel had snorted and turned him away. This time, they sit across from him in the tavern, hood drawn back but eyes still puffy, idly fiddling with their mug as he prattles on to one story or another. 

Asmodeus orders another for them, eyes and hands lingering on their host in something more than friendliness. Raphael’s face twists. Something in their chest hisses, and they down the rest of their drink. 

“It’ll dull the pain,” he’d said. “Have some more, my dear,” he’d said. It was something other than tempting. Maybe something trying to help. Probably, it was something they were better off not trusting. 

_Better this way. _Shut up, Gabriel. 

At first all they felt was morose. Miserable. Cried-out and headachy. While it wasn’t their first time drinking, it _was_ their first time _Drinking_. Capitalized. _Italicized_. _Emphasized._ As the night went on, the misery lessened and gave way to… well, they weren’t quite sure exactly what. Alcohol, mostly. 

As he helps them to a room, they ramble. 

“I _jussst _don’t.. Get it,” they mumble against his shoulder. Their breath is warm against him, lips so close to brushing skin. Maddening, almost. “Why’_s sshe _gotta do it this way. ‘N’ not. ‘Ny other way. S’not like She’_sss_ not all powerful, ‘r anything. She could, ‘f She wanted to, why doesn’t She? She _lovesss _us…” 

Asmodeus nods patiently, fussing with their torn robes. “You’re hissing, my darling.” 

Raphael flaps a hand ineffectively. Their tongue flicks. Seems their true form seeping outwards isn’t something that only occurs in demons. “_Happensss_. ‘S’like. ‘S’like. She _wantss _us in pain. Why’d She do-” 

While it’s terribly interesting to see an Archangel in this state and he’d love nothing more than to explore this further and see what else he might wring from Raphael, he is aware that this is a very dangerous line of questioning. Asmodeus stops very suddenly, nearly jostling his companion from his arms. It earns him an entirely _un-_intimidating growl. “Perhaps, Raphael, you might stop asking questions you don’t want the answers to.” 

And, well, that just didn’t follow. They _did _want answers. Asmodus sighs, settling them into a bed they aren’t sure is theirs. Must do. Must be. 

“You should sleep. You’ll forget about all this in the morning, won’t you.” 

“Won’t. _He’sss_ still up there. Y’know. _Hanging._” 

Asmodeus puffs a breath. 

_“Sleep.”_

And so they do. 

* * *

When they wake it’s with a_ searing _headache, and with some amount of irritation Raphael realizes that Asmodeus hadn’t bothered to _warn them_ about it beforehand. 

Well, it had helped with their headache last night, and they truly did not want to have to bother with going out into the world today. What harm could more do. 

* * *

**-Rome, 37 AD-**

As a Virtue, Chastity has gone to earth on more than one occasion. After all, their whole department is Miracleworking and it’s difficult to work miracles without actually interacting with humans. Though none of them have stayed on earth nearly so long as Raphael, the seven of them are accustomed enough to it. 

That didn’t prepare Chastity for Rome. She hasn’t been earth to in centuries [6] and the population has grown quite significantly since she’d last been. They’ve advanced and this is supposed to be the largest empire yet. And where there are people, there’s sin. Chastity is supposed to get some sort of control of the situation. At least, control of one man in particular named Domitius. She has very little knowledge of who he’s supposed to be and why she needs to convince him away from the path of lust [7], but that’s the Way of Things. The Virtues are rarely told _why_, unless Raphael is there. They so rarely are, these days. 

She’s supposed to be headed to Antium soon, but she’d wanted to see Rome first. A bit of curiosity can’t hurt, Raphael always says with that soft smile and twinkling eyes of theirs. Well, if they say so, they must be right. 

Chastity is winding her way through the streets, taking in everything in her sight with a sort of awe she won’t admit to if asked, when someone jogs up beside her. 

“Ah, I _thought _I felt an angelic presence,” says a familiar voice, entirely too gleeful. She shoots him a glare, resolutely keeping on her path. _Asmodeus_. Raphael’s demon. Oh, she’s met him, alright. He’s supposed to be something of her antithesis, though truthfully they rather avoid each other. Still, every time they meet, she finds herself _annoyed_. 

“Ugh. Tell me you’re not going to Antium, too? I have _work _to do-” She’s frowning, wheels already turning on how she’s going to get him out of her way enough to do what she has to. 

“Hm, no, I’m here on pleasure this time, not business. Why? _Should _I be in Antium?” 

She immediately regrets mentioning anything. “No! No, of course you shouldn’t be in Antium.” 

“I see.” He’s got a bit of a gleam in his eye and her lips purse. Whatever’s going to come out next, she has the feeling she’s not going to like it. “Say, how long are you supposed to be in, ah, Antium?” 

Chastity’s gaze slides to him suspiciously. “A few days.” 

He hums, looking rather pleased with himself as he clasps his hands behind his back. He leers a bit, lashes lowering. “What would you say to a tour?” The word _tour _is said like it’s a clandestine, scandalous act that would make even the most salacious blush. 

Chastity wrinkles her nose, indignant. “I’d say no _thank you_. Don’t you have another angel you usually bother?” She feels a little bad as she says it. She’s well aware of the _thing _between them. She’d met Aziraphale, back Before. They all had and had all been subsequently asked very nicely not to bring it up to him if they ever saw him._ It’s complicated_, Raphael had said. 

Seeming to accept the rejection for what it is and shrugging it off, Asmodeus merely sniffs. “Yes, well. My life doesn’t revolvearound them, you know. I’m a _demon_. I have my own- wiles,” he says in a way that suggests he hasn’t seen Raphael in a some time. 

“Well, have fun with that. I have things to do. Go find someone else to annoy.” 

“Oh, darling, you break my heart.” He feigns hurt, placing a hand over his chest, and she very nearly rolls her eyes. [8]

“Uh huh. Look, I’ll talk to them if I see them, alright?” she offers, though it pains her to do so. _It’s not for him,_ she reminds herself. It’s for Raphael, who’s always been the closest thing any of them had to a parental figure. “I have to go. Have fun doing… whatever it is you’re doing.” 

She speeds up, leaving the demon behind and shaking herself a bit. 

It’s none of her business, really. 

* * *

**-Rome, 41 AD-**

As vices go, there could be worse for an angel to fall into than the drink. Raphael has, over time, learned that he can miracle away the effects before it sets into his corporation as a hangover - no thanks to Asmodeus’ help, and _yes_ he is still annoyed - and go about his business as if nothing had happened. He’d even acquired a bit of a taste for it. Suppose he has Asmodeus’ influence to thank for that. 

He can indulge himself a little, now and again. Virtue Temperance isn’t here to glower at him over it. And besides, he should perhaps consider this a celebration of a job well done, in a way. 

“I’ll have a jug of whatever you think is drinkable,” he says, and the bored-looking young woman behind the counter nods. 

“Raphael? Is that _you?”_ As if summoned by his thoughts, the demon _appears_ by his side and settles comfortably into a seat, crossing his legs in a very un-Roman way. What a coincidence. “Small world, my dear boy. Still an angel, then?” 

Raphael has had a very long day and he suddenly realizes he has precious little patience for japes. “Still a - what kind of a_ stupid _question is _that?_ Still an _angel?_ What _else_ would I be, an _aardvark?”_

As soon as the words leave his mouth he regrets them. Asmodeus leans away, eyebrows raised, delicate red lips pursed into a tiny, mocking_ o._ “Ooh, temper temper, Archangel.” He waves his fingers and with a tiny surge of demonic energy, his cup refills itself. “Well, since you won’t say it, I shall - _salutaria,_ my dear. Been in Rome long, have you?” 

Now that he’s here, and not leaving, Raphael allows himself to look at the Duke. The face he wears this era is clean-shaven, something Raphael hasn’t seen in _ages_, neither young nor old - comfortably in the middle, crowned with silvery curls that practically glowed when the sunlight caught it. Like a sliver of moonlight. Like a halo. He could almost have been unchanged by his Fall, were it not for that and the red cat’s eyes. He knows Asmodeus doesn’t bother to cover them - knows, also, that he made it so that people wouldn’t notice. Clever little demon. He’s only ever seen when he _wants _to be. 

“Just got here, truthfully. Head office wants me to see to it that Caligula is…_ removed_ sooner rather than later. Hardly needed to do a thing. Frankly, he doesn’t need divine intervention to be appalling.” He fiddles with his cup, swirls the dregs at the bottom. “What about you, Asmodeus? Tempting anyone special?” 

The demon gives a pleased little wiggle. Raphael has to bite back a smile. 

“They want me to influence a boy called _Nero_. I had thought I’d show him some of the_ real _pleasures of life, but he’s…” He grimaces. “Well, a child, really. I suppose a thorough appreciation for the hedonistic can start young. I was thinking about suggesting _acting_.” 

The Archangel snorts, refilling his cup, imagining Asmodeus having to run about with a toddler trying to tell him all about _the hedonistic _and _the arts._ Maybe he had the better job, after all. 

“Not much you could do for influencing a child, dearheart, at least not lust-wise. Wonder why they bothered to send you. What else have you been up to? As I understand it, you’ve been rather a nuisance to Virtue Chastity.” 

Asmodeus leaps upon this question like a cat would a - well, a rat. “Oh, never mind _her,_ dearest. Actually, I was thinking about visiting this restaurant, Petronius’s new one, where I’ve heard they do just _lovely_ things to oysters. But it would be terribly lonely to go alone.” 

He looks at Raphael, delicate white lashes batting, and even now he cannot resist him. Raphael leans back. “I’ve never eaten an oyster, I don’t think.” 

“Well,” and there’s that dangerous grin again; mischievous, eyes half-lidded as crow’s feet wink into existence at the corners, the edges of his lips turned coyly upwards to show his teeth - coquettish, this look would come to be known as, though not for several hundreds of years. Those fangs are meant for stripping meat from bone and Raphael finds himself swallowing thickly. “Allow me to _tempt you_ to lunch, my angel?” 

Raphael inhales. In a distant memory, Gabriel’s voice echoes. _Better this way._

He makes a decision. He makes a _choice_. 

“Sure. I could do with a bite to eat, anyways.” 

* * *

The oysters are quite good, actually. He hadn’t been sure what he’d expected. He knows better than to be scandalized by the other patronage; Raphael may be an angel, but he’s not unused to the way Romans go about things even if he doesn’t partake himself. His _bite to eat _turns rapidly more into an extended visit with Asmodeus to discuss their last eight years apart - with the food comes wine, and with wine comes more wine, until the demon’s sandaled ankle brushes up Raphael’s leg, until Raphael leans in willingly for another story to be told. 

The oysters are really, very good, but not nearly as good as watching Asmodeus delicately scoop them from their shells with care and precision, red lips closing around the bite, kohl-lined eyelids slipping shut with a sigh of contentment. Raphael realizes he’s leaning far too close on his arm and slips back into his seat, fist clenched on the edge of their table. Far, _far _too much wine. 

It would have been a nice lunch out, and Raphael would have left it at that, had Asmodeus not gotten distracted by - well, every pretty young man in a ten mile radius. He lost sight of the demon for all of thirty seconds - _thirty_ \- and when he finds him again, Asmodeus is sidling up to a handsome Roman with uncommonly stunning auburn curls and, really, Raphael doesn’t know if he should be flattered by the resemblance or irritated.** _Really._** And here he had thought the demon had wanted _his_ company. If he’d known he was just going to be, what, _moral support,_ he wouldn’t have agreed to come. Just because he has wings doesn’t mean he’s a _wingman_. 

He watches as his companion flirts, cajoles,_ touches_ like it’s nothing - like he hasn’t just met this person at a bar and had, in fact, known him for thousands of years. Some traitorous part of him wishes Asmodeus would touch him like that, but the demon has ever seemed to respect_ his_ privacy. 

And why should he complain? It was Raphael himself who set up this dynamic from the start. He has no right to this… feeling. Jealousy is a sin, of course, one of the big ones - ‘thou shalt not covet,’ and whatnot. And yet even still he finds something dark boiling up within him watching this _show_, some fetid black hateful thing that finds its home in his ribs, under his heart, sinking its claws into his lungs; and as he looks closer, he finds Asmodeus isn’t paying attention to his newest catch at all. 

He’s watching for Raphael’s reaction. For his _attention._ And knowing, now, that he has it, the Duke of Hell _grins _and slides his hand lower on this young man’s body, slipping between fabric as he coos something no doubt _filthy _to the youth. 

Raphael has shot up from his seat and crossed the room towards them before he even realizes what he’s doing. Asmodeus looks up from mouthing at his prey’s neck, looking entirely too smug. He opens his mouth to say something but Raphael beats him to it, gripping his arm and dragging him away from the terribly confused youth. 

“Just _what_ are you playing at, _dearheart,” _he growls, emphasising the pet name sourly. Asmodeus dabs at his mouth with the corner of his toga. 

“Well,” he said, leaning too tipsily to be on purpose, “having a bit of fun, I’d say.” 

“Tormenting me? _Tempting_ me? Is that _fun _to you?” 

Asmodeus’ eyes widen comically and he feigns offense. “_Tempting_ _you?_ Why, my dear boy, I would _never._ I know how ‘married’ you are to your job. And besides, I was very thoroughly tempting that young man, not you.” He takes this moment to wave gaily, and Raphael has had entirely too much wine to deal with this. He sobers with a grimace, willing away the fuzziness on his tongue and giving a rather unangelic sneer, dropping the demon’s arm. 

“_Why_ do I even-” He huffs, throws his hands up in disgust, as if begging supplication from Heaven - begging for patience, perhaps. ‘Lord give him the strength to deal with pesky demons.’ “Oh, ‘f ‘_course,_ ‘course, don’t let me _get in the way_. I thought we were _going to lunch_, but oh no, _no_, be my guest. I’ll just be going, then.” 

Asmodeus’ eyes flare in triumph, as if Raphael’s just let something slip. 

He inches closer, closer,_ closer still_, until Raphael can feel the warmth of his breath on his lips, smell the wine they’d been drinking. His eyes are wide no longer, but half-lidded, dangerous, taking in all of the angel before him eagerly as a drowning man does water. 

“Would you rather I did it to you?” Asmodeus questions, a hand drawing down Raphael’s front just like he’d seen before. These togas really did precious little for coverage. He shivers. 

It would be easy to rebuke him. To turn him away. To ignore it and go back to where they were before - wiling and thwarting and meeting up for lunch every now and again. Raphael _should_ turn him away. He _should_ ignore it. Now he _is _tempting him. Can he blame this on the wine? The oysters? The atmosphere of sin and debauchery that seeped into the very stones of Rome? 

Truthfully, he doesn’t want to. 

“Yes,” he breathes, and swallows thickly, gaze flicking to Asmodeus’ lips. 

Asmodeus’ smile could only be described as _beautiful _as he leans in closer. 

The first kiss is- not the first, though it isn’t as if Asmodeus would know that. Even with that in mind, it’s the first in a very, _very_ long time and it brings Raphael’s heart to a standstill. His lips… his delicate rose bud mouth, sweeter than honey. It had not changed in four thousand years. As Asmodeus tilts his head and slips closer to him, Raphael’s heart finally catches up with the rest of him and he _whines, _brows drawn in tight, tears pricking at his eyes. He chases the waxiness of the makeup the demon is sporting, catches the taste of wine with his tongue, and this is only a taste, only the beginning because Asmodeus is already pulling away and taking a stunned Raphael by the wrist with him out of the bar and into the streets. 

He’s laughing, gleeful, not cruel or mocking, drawing Raphael with him into alleys and dark corners to steal more kisses. Each one is less chaste than the last, and Raphael finds his hands know what to do already; how to touch, _where_ to touch, how to _grab _at Asmodeus’ flesh in a way that will earn him a sweet gasp and a teasing shove. “Beastly, you are, Raphael. One of God’s own Archangels?” 

Raphael doesn’t need reminding. “_Ssss_hut _up,”_ he hisses, sealing the command with another kiss. 

It’s a wonder they make it to a room at all. 

* * *

They make it to an inn that was most definitely not where Raphael was staying but was, in fact, an establishment Asmodeus knows well. Knows so well, in fact, that he blows right past the innkeeper and up to a room he knows will be empty. [9]

Raphael seems to have realized his mistake. 

Frankly, Asmodeus is shocked it took him this long to get cold feet. Had expected maybe two kisses, or three, before the angel backed out with some stuttered excuses. He’d been pleasantly surprised. Raphael looks at him, now, like he’s a little lost or some kind of kicked puppy. The angel opens his mouth to offer apologies, begins to slip his hand from Asmodeus’, and no, that just _won’t do_. 

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want, my dear,” he coos delicately, reaching up to tuck a curl of that gorgeous red hair behind one of Raphael’s pointed ears [10]. Raphael’s eyes slide shut with a shudder, a tense breath leaving him. Oh, yes. He’s definitely never done anything of this sort. 

“It’s not… that,” Raphael responds, voice practically _quivering_. Poor lamb. 

Asmodeus raises his brows. “Oh? Is it not? I was under the impression that-” 

Whatever he’s under the impression of, it’ll have to wait, because Raphael takes that moment to stalk forward and kiss him, again, sweeter than all the others before it. His hands come up to sink into Asmodeus’ hair and oh, yes, that’s more than acceptable. 

“Stop distracting me,” he whispers against Asmodeus’ mouth, and what is he to do if not comply? He deepens this sweeter kiss until it is sweet no longer, entranced by his angel’s enthusiasm. Raphael lets Asmodeus take the lead and guide him into the room’s bed, lets him push back until the backs of his knees collide with the soft sheets and settle him into it, lets him slip his hands into the places only his eyes had explored before. And then, unexpectedly, Raphael nips at his lower lip tentatively - then more _demandingly_, and Asmodeus gasps and flinches away. 

He raises a hand to his lip, surprised to have his fingers come away wet with dark blood. When he looks up, Raphael is horrified. 

“I’m sorry,” he begins to babble. Asmodeus can just barely catch the glint of snake’s fangs in that perfect mouth. “I hadn’t - I didn’t mean to - I can, I can change them, if you w-” 

Then Asmodeus is on him again with _even more_ fervor than before, the taste of his blood shared between them both, now, as he explores Raphael’s mouth like he wants to commit it to memory. Every angle and plane, the sharp edges of his teeth and the rough velvet of his tongue. Raphael gasps in somewhat-pain-somewhat-pleasure when Asmodeus slides the barbed surface of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and the demon gives a pleased hum. He settles firmly into the angel’s lap, cupping his face, pushing at his toga insistently. Damned things are so light and breezy and yet somehow get so terribly _in the way. _

Asmodeus grinds down into Raphael’s lap, deviously, and is met with a half-aborted _“ngk.”_ Adorable. He breaks the kiss, inhaling, and as Raphael moves to follow after him - _plaintive,_ breathy, gold eyes like embers - he plants a hand on his chest and pushes him down. Pins him, just like that, one-handed, and Raphael’s own hands settle on Asmodeus’ hips. He looks so charming like this; mouth as red as his own, now, with smeared lip stain and blood, black clothes barely hanging still, eyes dark and his hair… his hair. 

His hair is still done up in the styles the ladies favored, these days. Perhaps a little messy, now, but still in place. 

Just_ what _can he do about that? 

Asmodeus passes a hand over the intricate braids, following their path across Raphael’s scalp. The angel sighs longingly, and the demon smiles. 

He makes a gesture for the second time that day, a minute snap - technically unnecessary, but fun for theatrics - and Raphael’s hair comes tumbling down his shoulders, undone with the vanishing of pins and hairpieces.He’s about to complain, Asmodeus can tell by the unhappy little twist marring that pretty mouth of his,so he silences him by immediately threading his fingers into that red, red hair and Raphael _bucks _beneath him. 

What a_ fascinating _reaction. 

He massages his companion’s scalp, slipping both hands into the freed locks and tugging ever so slightly, and is rewarded for his efforts with a disgracefully throaty moan. This time, when he grinds down, there’s a _much_ more noticeable hardness there. 

Asmodeus almost laughs. “Oh? Making an _effort _for me, are you?” 

What he hadn’t expected is the look in Raphael’s eyes when he responds, breathless. “Yeah. Always.” 

Something in his heart clenches and he draws a hand down Raphael’s cheek almost tenderly, watching his eyelashes flutter against the delicate skin under his eyes. “Oh, my dear.” 

Raphael’s grip on his hips hasn’t lightened - he is actively being held against the angel, now, and every movement wrings a minute whimper from Raphael’s lips. Asmodeus leans back to take the sight of him in, now, fully. There’s a growing flush up his bare chest where his black robes have been torn away by hands, and his red hair fans out about his head like a fiery halo. He looks positively - well, angelic, for lack of a better word. 

Asmodeus smiles. He sinks his fist into Raphael’s hair to yank his head back - met with the sweetest cry - and begins to kiss down Raphael’s jaw and neck, leaving marks of bright red from his lips as he goes. His nimble hands find the clasps and ties of Raphael’s clothing, teasing them loose, uncovering this divine body inch by gradual inch while his mouth forms bruises against his collarbone and he draws one unsheathed claw down Raphael’s now-bare chest - barely more than a threat, really, allowing it to catch on his flesh and _rip _just the slightest, drawing golden blood and the sweetest whine from his angel. Raphael shudders and clings closer to him, one hand reaching to pull at his curls while the other clutches at their shared bedding. “_Dearheart_-” he whines, word choked somewhere at the beginning. 

“Patience,” Asmodeus breathes, lips curling upwards to lathe his barbed tongue over an already tender nipple. “Isn’t that one of your Virtues, Raphael?” 

In response, Raphael bucks again, and this time it’s Asmodeus who gasps. “_Ha_ -_ oh,_ eager thing, aren’t you, did they teach you that in Heaven?” 

Raphael is past the point of banter, clearly. No wonder he’s such a high-strung thing. Asmodeus gradually shifts further downwards, hands wandering to Raphael’s hips, his thighs, delicate touches and a well-placed bite encouraging them to part. And oh, but by _Someone,_ he’s _pretty_ like this. His breath puffs over Raphael’s cock, teasing, before returning to anointing the surrounding skin in bites and kisses. 

_“Asmodeus,” _Raphael whimpers, sibilants forming unbidden as his hips buck insistently. He shifts his pin on the angel, holding him still, and offers the barest brush of lips to his erection. 

_“Patience,_ Raphael.” 

Asmodeus has no illusions that this would be his only chance to taste every_ inch_ of this angel before he’s cast out. He plans to savor it. 

He presses his lips to the head of Raphael’s cock, drinks in the sounds he makes as he suckles and only _just_ teases the tip. He tastes sweet and heavy on his tongue, celestial, _divine_, and Asmodeus isn’t entirely sure how anyone else will compare, after this. He bobs his head, slowly, taking in more of the angel, and he can’t help but moan a little, himself. 

Perhaps this is a bad idea after all, but with Raphael making those sounds above him, head tossing, hands clutching at whatever is closest, Asmodeus doesn’t see how it possibly could be. Raphael’s belly tenses beneath him. He lifts his head with an audible pop, and the cock he’d been so carefully working over twitches sadly without the warmth of his mouth. Poor thing. Raphael isn’t too happy about it, either, lifting his head to see. Asmodeus offers a wink, a flash of teeth, and spits into his hand to take the member and stroke _agonizingly_ slowly. 

Asmodeus shifts upwards to swallow Raphael’s resulting cry. He stays there to watch Raphael’s face screw up, to kiss the corner of his mouth, bite his jaw, suck behind his ear. “Is this alright, my dear?” He punctuates his words with a particularly vicious twist of his wrist and a thrust of his own against Raphael’s inner thigh, and the Archangel gasps. “Is it everything you _wanted?_ Everything you _imagined?_” 

“More,” he whines, in response. Asmodeus purrs. 

“Oh? More what?” 

Raphael fists the bedding._ “More.”_

“Well, when you put it like that.” 

He sheds his own toga, finally, baring his own pale skin to the warmth of their room. Raphael looks up at him, practically worshipful. It’s flattering. It’s _cute._ That useless, black little heart in his chest flips unexpectedly. 

Bless it. He’d played the long game with this angel, sank his lust into lookalikes for long enough. Now that he has him, he will_ not_ be letting go any time soon. Asmodeus lowers himself onto the angel, thighs fitting perfectly between Raphael’s own legs, and bites down_ hard_ at the hollow of his throat. He could fit his trachea in his jaws, crush it like a _grape_ \- but beneath him, Raphael sobs and wraps an arm around Asmodeus’ neck. _“Please.”_

How can he possibly deny him, when he asks so sweetly? 

The Romans have decided that olive oil is the thing to be used, this era. It’s certainly much preferable to lard, anyways. Certainly _anything_ to avoid chafing is a blessing. Asmodeus takes his own cock in hand, hissing at the tight pleasure curled in his lower belly as he strokes, and kisses Raphael’s throat once more before grinding down insistently against him. 

Raphael quivers, a strangled sound erupting from his throat. He locks his legs around Asmodeus’ hips and _clings_, nails digging into his back in a way that felt like damnation and salvation all at once. He’s sure they’ll leave angry, red lines down his back, and the thought sends a shiver down his spine. He moves, _they_ move together - rolling hips locked, mouths meeting and releasing. Raphael reaches out to cup his smooth jaw, his gaze distant and almost _sad_ \- that wouldn’t do at all. Asmodeus growls, his hands finding Raphael’s own and pinning them above his head. 

_“Fuck,”_ Raphael pants, thrusting up to meet him, heavy breaths filling the air. _“‘Sssira-”_

Asmodeus plants another kiss, silencing whatever he’d been about to say. “Hush, my dear, my dear boy, look at you…” 

He hadn’t truly been going anywhere with that, but Raphael makes _such_ a sound as he praises him. When he begs for more, Asmodeus almost laughs. 

“More? More praise? Oh, you are _insatiable_.” He shifts his grip, shifts his angle, and groans. “You’re stunning, Raphael.” He kisses his chin. “Beautiful. _Divine_.” 

Raphael tenses and sobs again beneath him, toes curling, eyes screwed shut. Asmodeus kisses his eyelids and slows his thrusts. “Mm, so perfect for me… so _pleasing_. Your cock fit perfectly into my mouth, you know, like it was _made_ for me. Did you do that? Tailor yourself to fit my tastes? How long have you desired this?” 

Raphael is close, too close to respond coherently, only nod dumbly and hide his face in Asmodeus’ shoulder. 

“No, no.” He wraps his fingers in the hair at the back of his neck and _pulls,_ and Raphael follows obediently. “Let me see that face. There you are.” 

He ducks his head to groan and pant into Raphael’s ear. “Oh, my dear, you’re doing so well. You’re so good for me. _So good.”_

And really, that’s all it takes. That’s what does it. 

Raphael tenses in Asmodeus’ arms, legs around his hips spasming, and he cums [11] with a drawn-out whimper. Seeing his face is like witnessing the first dawn. 

“There, now,” Asmodeus pants, leaning back. “That wasn’t so hard, was it.” 

Raphael sniffs and settles bonelessly beneath him, shuddering still. But Asmodeus hasn’t finished with him yet - his own cock still needs seeing to. He kisses Raphael’s cheek and then takes him into his hand again, for refractory periods are a thing that _other _people have to deal with, sliding back down his body and this time when he sucks the angel into his mouth he does more than just that. 

Raphael’s freed hands fly to grip Asmodeus’ hair, squirming against him, oversensitive flesh pressed hot to his lips. Asmodeus does the same thing he had before, pulls his power from hell, and finds his fingers slick with olive oil. He draws this hand lower, teasing every inch of him, and Raphael _whimpers_ as Asmodeus presses his finger_ just_ so, not to enter, only to tease, to stroke and pet. He looks up at the angel and from this vantage point he can almost know heaven like he used to. He continues the gentle pressure, the slow petting until Raphael relaxes with a breathy sigh. Asmodeus takes this moment to mouth at his cock, already hard again, pressing kisses up the shaft until he reaches the head - and then, as he does, as he passes his lion’s tongue devilishly over the tip, he slips a finger inside and Raphael arches. His mouth is wide, though no sound comes forth, just an out of breath wheeze and overwhelming wave of Lust. 

Asmodeus knows lust like an angel knows love. He’s always been able to sense it coming off of Raphael, and now - it’s intoxicating. He thrusts his finger inside him slowly, curls it just the way he needs to, and Raphael grinds his hips down onto his hand with a low cry. 

_“Asss_ \- hhhah - _modeuss, _please,” he swallows, and then begs more insistently. _“Please.”_

Asmodeus releases his cock once again and grins at the dismayed sound he’s greeted with. He doesn’t go too far - his lips brush Raphael’s erection when he speaks. “Please _what? _What do you _need,_ my dear?” 

“This, don’t stop, don’t _fucking sssstop,_ more -” 

“Well, my dear, I can’t talk with my mouth full, can I?” Asmodeus’ voice deepens to a low growl. He was kind, the first time; no longer. “More _what?”_

Raphael wets his lips, huffs, tosses his head back in frustration as he rolls his hips. “More - of you.” His hand flexes in the demon’s hair, silky silver peeking from between his fingers. Asmodeus purrs and pushes his head upwards into the touch. “Your - your fingers. Your-” 

His voice fails him as Asmodeus slips another finger into him. 

“My _cock?_ Hmm? Is that what you were trying to say? Is that what you _need,_ Archangel?” 

The muscles in Raphael’s slim thighs quiver. “Please, please, I’ll do anything-” 

“Oh, I don’t know if all that will be necessary.” He thrusts those fingers ruthlessly, twisting carefully to hit that point that made the angel cry. “But I will keep that _anything_ in mind, later on.” 

Asmodeus slows his pace to ease the cramp in his wrist and scissors the two fingers inside Raphael’s slick heat. His own breath is coming hot and fast against Raphael’s thigh, grinding his hips into the makeshift mattress below them at a measured pace. No need to finish himself before he’s even gotten to properly sample everything the angel has to offer. 

He pulls his fingers free from Raphael’s trembling self and replaces the sudden void with the barest press of his cock. Raphael moans piteously. 

Asmodeus is past teasing, at this point - he presses further, slowly, _achingly_ slowly, entering Raphael not unlike the Holy Spirit probably entered Mary, listening to the sound Raphael makes, focusing on keeping his own breath level and not snapping his hips into the angel and pounding him into the mattress. He needs to keep it _level _\- never mind how close they both are. 

Raphael is scrabbling at his back again, the claw marks left from earlier stinging anew. It’s worth it for the wide-eyed keen he’s awarded with as Asmodeus shifts inside him, just slightly, just enough to remind him who he belongs to in that moment. 

Not God, not the humans, not even Hell. 

Raphael tightens his grip, hips bucking. “Move,” he gasps, “Az - Ash - _Asmodeus, move.”_

He doesn’t need any more invitation. 

Asmodeus gathers him into his embrace, shifting on his knees to push deeper into Raphael. He muffles his own groan into the angel’s shoulder, biting down gently on the soft skin there, and Raphael _sighs_, a hand on the back of his neck, his legs hooked up over Asmodeus’ arms. The first thrusts are shallow, slow, growing acclimated to each other and the effects they have. 

The next thrusts are less shallow, and _much _less slow. At Raphael’s insistence, Asmodeus fucks him - ruts into him like humans in the garden. It’s rough, and heavy, and he surreptitiously miracles more oil so as to not _too_ thoroughly wreck his angel. It isn’t long at all before their world has contracted to just the two of them; two points on a compass, two sides of a coin, two binary stars ever orbiting each other - coming ever closer, but never to meet. 

That is, until now. 

Asmodeus shifts his grip, his angle, and immediately has Raphael jolting beneath him, rocking to meet his thrusts. He cums again, no less beautiful than the last and painting his belly with it, and Asmodeus chases the angel’s pleasure with his own. It’s two thrusts more, then three, then - Raphael clenches around him, unexpectedly, _awful _creature, _heavenly_ creature, and Asmodeus can last no longer. He spills himself into the angel, shuddering, the softest sigh leaving his lips. 

He doesn’t pull out, immediately. Raphael whimpers when he tries, scrabbling at his chest. Well, that’s alright then. He could do with basking in this for a few moments longer. He shifts, feeling the warm slick, and shivers. 

Basking, indeed. Raphael was well worth the wait. 

He doesn’t kiss the angel when he pulls out - doesn’t even bother to miracle him clean. If he wants it, he can do it himself. He’s a big boy, isn’t he? 

Granted, that big boy is currently barely able to get his limbs into somewhat working condition. It’s fine, probably. 

Asmodeus settles back against the wall, taking in the unlikely scene of The Archangel Raphael, God’s Healer, Of The First Five, collapsed all fucked-out beside him - the delectable sheen of sweat coating his limbs, the tangle of his hair, the mess of lip stain he’s left trailed down his body. Moonlight streams in through the cracks in the window, catching on his closed lashes, alighting delicately on his pale skin, marred by purpling bite marks and bruises in the perfect shape of his fingers. 

He’s beautiful, and already asleep. Asmodeus swallows thickly and brushes Raphael’s hair back from his forehead. 

The angel nuzzles into his palm and the love in it _burns_. He jerks back. 

For the first time in a long time, he feels full. He isn’t sure how, or what it is he’s full of; just knows that something long-missing has finally come home to him. 

He doesn’t have time to dissect that feeling. Indeed, he feels as though he’s already stayed for too long. 

It was just a quick shag to release some tension; nothing particularly special to it, really. 

He stops to gather his things, clothes himself with a gesture. Pausing to take one last glance at Raphael’s resting form, he passes his palm over the simple wooden side table by the bed and burns a note into it. 

That done, the Duke of Lust firmly affixes his usual smirk back onto his face, and leaves. 

* * *

Angels aren’t meant to sleep. 

Then again, they aren’t meant to fall into bed with demons and get thoroughly _fucked _either. As Raphael wakes, it’s to the rather insistent reminder of the latter. The sun is shining far too brightly through the window and he drapes his forearm over sleep heavy eyes with a slight wrinkle of his nose as the motion causes him to shift. With the shift comes the ache in his limbs and back and a rather sticky, unpleasant feeling that hadn’t been much of an issue the last time he’d done this. Despite the rather unfortunate feeling, he can’t help the tired smile that curves his lips at the memory of the night before. It’d been… 

Throughout the millennia, Raphael had tried to keep his distance from Asmodeus. Of course, there was the ever-looming presence of their respective Sides, the threat that if they slipped up just slightly, it’d mean trouble. He’d lost the demon once and hadn’t planned on losing him in a rather more _permanent _way. But one of the main reasons he’d kept away was simple, when you got down to it. The fear that it wouldn’t be the same. That the love they’d shared before had been some sort of divine fluke, a mistake. There was no guarantee that he’d be able to love him, not like he’d wanted to. 

He’d found his answer to that. Of course, the motions were different, the script changed. Before, Aziraphale never would’ve been so daring or commanding, not that Raphael minded. There were no stars this time, or gardens. But for all that things had shifted, it really hadn’t changed at all. Asmodeus’ touch, his kiss, the way he looked at him, none of it had changed. Raphael had realized, with a sort of terrified elation, that he still _loved _the demon. Not as he’s meant to love all of Her creatures, but in the way he’d loved Aziraphale: complete and all-consuming. 

Dangerous, that. 

He sighs, idly waving the fingers of his free hand to clean up. More of a twitch, really. 

As his hand settles back down on the sheets, he realizes the space beside him is empty and the careful fragility of the morning shatters. His lips turn into a small frown, sliding his forearm from his eyes to turn his head. A hollow pit settles in his stomach when he sees the sheets beside him, unslept in and cold. 

Asmodeus had left. 

Of _course_ he had. 

Raphael takes his hand back, dragging it down his face in sheer _disgust_ at his own foolishness. 

Stupid. That’s what he’s been. _Stupid_. There’s no other word for it. 

He groans, turning onto his side. Shame burns hot in his chest, threatening to crawl its way up and choke him on its merry way. 

In over four thousand years, he’s seen this story of the demon’s again and again. He’s endured gleefully recounted tales of lovers he’d taken to his bed and left in the night, cooing about the pretty, eager things that they’d been. He’d had more than one awkward run ins with some of the unlucky ones that’d managed to fall for him, asking around for Asmodeus. He’d known well how the demon viewed such things. But somewhere in the hazy mist of jealousy, lust, and most damning of all, hope, he’d forgotten all that. Forgotten that while for him it had been like coming home, that didn’t mean the same was remotely true for Asmodeus. 

_Stupid_. 

Not wanting to stay much longer, Raphael sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He snaps his fingers, redressed and hair pinned back in its elaborate braids and twists he’s taken to this decade. He ignores the burning in his chest, just beneath his ribs, and stands. He didn’t bring much with him and he sucks in a breath. His eyes flutter shut a moment, feeling that twisting feeling climb up his throat again. 

Maybe he should have listened to his little brother after all. 

He shakes his head, fists clenching by his sides. It’s not as if it’s Asmodeus’ fault. He’d merely done as was in his nature and Raphael had done what was in his. It’s just that- well, he’d rather thought they could overcome all that. _Whatever_. It’s- it’s _fine_. That’s what it is. 

As he checks that he hasn’t left anything behind, a rather sorry attempt at distraction as he knows well he didn’t have anything on him but his clothes and his bag of money, engraved words on the side table catch his eye. Well, those certainly hadn’t been there before. Steeling himself, he moves closer to read them. 

_Terribly sorry to leave so soon, my dear. Temptations to get to. I’m sure you understand. It was awfully fun. Oh, and if it isn’t too much trouble, I forgot my purse. I suppose I’ll owe you._

With a small scowl and flash of annoyance (_hurt_), Raphael clears the words in an irritated gesture [12]. 

He leaves the room behind him and doesn’t look back. 

\- 

1 Area here meaning “the entire world”. [ return to text ] 

2 He does. He tells Asmodeus and Sara about his plan and they seem to agree; the former a tad begrudging and the latter rather relieved. [ return to text ] 

3 Contrary to what general public knowledge would later say, the Son of God was not born in December. It was closer to April or May, actually. [ return to text ] 

4 One of them was brand new. A Star in the East, he thought, wouldn’t that be a lovely thing to greet his new brother with. It had been a while since Raphael crafted a star, Polaris having been his last, but it’s not really something one forgets. [ return to text ] 

5 It was just one of those decades where Raphael wanted to mix it up a little. For them, gender was not unlike a nice jacket - worn only when needed, but otherwise ignored. Asmodeus, on the other hand, tended to view gender as a particularly fancy hat; an ornament, something just for fun. If it matched the rest of his outfit, it was coming along with. [ return to text ] 

6 In fact, it had been nearly a millennia. She’d been sent to tell Solomon to calm down, a bit. 699 wives were a bit much for anyone. Her plan had failed and he’d ended up with 700. [ return to text ] 

7 Upon finding out the age of Domitius’ wife, Chastity takes a rather more _direct_ approach that involves her Holy And Terrible Wrath. She knows how to throw an excellent punch. Unfortunately, it only makes him a bit sour, if not a little worse for wear. [ return to text ] 

8 Little known to Chastity, Asmodeus never had any serious intent of seducing her, beyond that of getting her boss’ attention. He is, after all, gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. [ return to text ] 

9 This particular room was empty solely because he had assumed it was, and the power of belief is a force to be reckoned with. Unrelated, it was numbered as room LXIX. [ return to text ] 

10 Asmodeus had been very pleasantly surprised to learn that demons weren’t the only creatures to have fangs and pointed ears - most, if not all angels sported them as well. Some even had eyes that glowed when the light hit them at just the right angle. Strange things, angels. [ return to text ] 

11 The authors would like to note, regarding this _particular _word and the spelling thereof, that there was great discussion on the merits of spelling it _cum _versus _come_. It was decided (in a _less than unanimous decision,_ but the vote went to the author writing the passage in question) that usage of _come _in this context made one look like a delicate mild-mannered new england schoolboy, and so, the alternative was put into place. [ return to text ]

12 Unbeknownst to him, Raphael had just received the world’s first IOU. [ return to text ] 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **sfw summary of the smut:** raphael and asmodeus sleep together, and they both have some feelings about it. raphael falls asleep almost immediately, expecting asmodeus to stay. instead, asmodeus leaves a note for him and makes a hasty retreat, leaving raphael to wake alone.
> 
> feel free to make plenty of fanart (and edits are totally welcome too), just @ us on tumblr (monsternobility & raphhaels) or use the tag #every wandering bark
> 
> also a sidenote but raph's freakout at the end there is absolutely ari projecting about rsd (rejection sensitive dysphoria). crowley/raphael has adhd and you cannot change my mind.
> 
> one last note but here's some general Personality Headcanons for the kids, no we do not take constructive criticism (we took the tests for the houses & myers briggs but the signs are just hcs): modi is estj, a slytherin, and a leo. raphael is enfp, a gryffindor, and a scorpio. yes we thought it was funny that the one that can turn into a lion is a slytherin and the one that turns into a snake is a gryffindor.


	4. emotionally charged spongebaths and leonardo da vinci was a switch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the posting delay, everyone! we're super busy with school and work. we usually do a last editing pass and format the footnotes on sunday before posting but didn't have time to do that this weekend. the next publishing date is still october 7, 2019 though :)
> 
> as always, thanks to our beta, amiel <3 @bxyhoodbravery on tumblr and ao3
> 
> [here](https://thornscrowned.tumblr.com/post/188185391200/obligatory-back-at-it-again-with-my-fanfic) is the fanart for this chapter. go check out thornscrowned on tumblr/fishycorvid here, she's seriously amazing and makes some gorgeous art. thanks so much :')
> 
> there's like....... 4-5 references in here if we're counting right and if u find them u get our applause. one is a quote from star trek and if you know the pairing you'll know it's Literally just role swap aziraphale/crowley. talk to ari about this in the comments ari is feral about this fact.
> 
> disclaimer: neither of us are history gays. take this with a grain of salt.

The next time they see each other is several years later, and Raphael firmly tells himself he won't be repeating any mistakes. 

Immediately after thinking this, in a matter of hours, he finds himself being fucked against a wall by a Prince [1] of Hell and, unfortunately, rather enjoying it. 

Asmodeus, for his part, is incredibly smug. Raphael tells him it won't happen again. It does. And it does, again. And again, and again, until eventually he stops pretending it won't, and they settle into a new rhythm. Asmodeus tempts, Raphael blesses, they meet up to either stop or assist each other, and they tumble into bed afterwards. Neither of them are ever there in the morning and, while not ideal, it_ is_ a system that begins to work for the both of them. 

This isn’t The Arrangement, not yet, but it is the beginning of _an_ arrangement if nothing else. 

* * *

**-The Crusades, 1096-1291 AD-**

Much like Her Archangels, Her Humans have suddenly decided that they know best what the Lord wants. They decide the best way for them to enact Her Will is a series of so-called ‘crusades’ - pointless ventures that, in the end, ultimately accomplish very little other than senseless violence. Retaking the Holy Land and whatnot isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. And, really, they hadn’t even wanted the Holy Land that badly, in the end - the humans just wanted an excuse to make war, and to massacre as many people different from them as possible. 

In general, it is a very frustrating time for every human and non-human person involved. Raphael receives a commendation for it. 

So, too, does Asmodeus. 

Personally, God finds it utterly_ fascinating _what people are willing to think of Her Opinions. Especially considering She hasn’t spoken a single word to any one of Her creations, _personally,_ in quite a while. 

* * *

**-Sicily, Italy, 1347 AD-**

There is a hospital, and in it, there is a man. 

This is not entirely accurate, in truth - there is a man-shaped being, a creature of some description that could loosely be called a man or just as loosely be called a _contagion_, an _endemic_, or perhaps even a _scourge_. He is neither tall nor short, neither wide nor thin, and his name (something that begins with a _P_ and ends in **THE SUFFERING OF BILLIONS, BOILS, CHOLERA, DYSENTERY, AND EVENTUAL DEATH**) is one that might have been prefaced with a “Dr,” not that this man had ever been to medical school. 

Not that any other doctor at that time had either, though. 

He looks an elderly gentleman, or at least he would if one could see under the beaked mask he’d adopted. The skin of his clean, bare hands has a sickly pallor to it that spreads to every man, woman, and child he brushes past. He is the source, the _vector_, patient zero - under his robes he carries multitudes. The physicians of this time recommend burning certain herbs, bloodletting, boil lancing, and silly things such as baths of vinegar and rose water. None of it, of course, will work. He’s made certain of that. 

He had worked hard on this particular strain of illness for quite some time, tweaking it, _perfecting_ it, twisting it around his fingers until it proved to be _truly_ devastating, ready to be released on the backs of rats. The beauty of this world is how easily something can _spread_. A touch here, a splash there, filth and depravity breeding bacteria like rabbits. One thing leads to another, to another, to another until a ship of dead men and perfect, darling, _adaptable_ little black rats docks in Messina. 

It isn’t really the rats’ fault, truly, nor even the fleas’. 

And from there, in the panic, the Pestilence _blooms, _and Death rides with him. 

* * *

**-England, 1348 AD-**

Thus far, the 14th century has mostly proven to be a dire, dreary, utterly_ dull_ thing. At least the last couple of centuries had something_ interesting _happening - however pointless the Crusades may have been, they had still been ripe with opportunity for Asmodeus. But this… all that he has to work with, now, is damp misery. Even the heights of civilization - nobles, lords and dukes, the priests and their flock, the places in which he is stationed - do not remain untouched. 

For a time, from his vantage point among the more aristocratic parts of society, it is something that afflicts the_ lessers_. Those _less fortunate_. Those _below_. It isn’t something for the gentry to worry for. But disease is disease, and disease doesn’t tend to care how wealthy its victims are before it strikes. This sickness, this bloody_ plague_ spreads everywhere, indiscriminate. It isn’t long before the rest of Europe falls to it in startlingly quick time, though he hears Poland is doing quite well for itself [2]. And as soon as it begins spreading from servant to master, well, then Asmodeus’s carefully tended social circles really begin to fall apart from the inside. He’d just been trying to make the most of a miserable century - serves him right for thinking he could have nice things. 

He has nothing to do with this. Really. He’d heard tell from news down below that Pestilence was riding, he just hadn’t quite stopped to think how _bad _it would get. Mankind ever bounces back from these kinds of tragedies, don’t they? Versatile things. Built to last. Some little illness isn’t going to do them in this easily. Oh, sure, a few thousands will die, a couple villages wiped out. It will be a _great_ tragedy, but - as a species - they’d be fine. He had been _totally, completely_ unworried. 

And then, like blood in water, it blossoms. All around him people drop like flies, men and women otherwise healthy dead by morning light. He hadn’t realized how wrong he’d been. He gets a first-hand look, through this, at what people are willing to do to save themselves. He sees friends thrown into the streets, whole families burned alive in their own homes, children - _children _\- alone in the sickhouses, abandoned to die alone. The very depths of sin and depravity born of the will to_ live_. 

As a demon, he has always known of the potency fear has when left unchecked. 

Asmodeus is, of course, perfectly safe. Human ailments have never been something he needs to concern himself with; he is, after all, as far from _human _as it gets. He has no reason to be concerned, really. As a demon, it is his_ job_ to not be concerned. To not be bothered. To _revel_ in the chaos. 

He can walk the streets drenched in shit and littered with corpses as safely as can be - and then go back home to his posh bed and fresh food, miracle the refuse from the soles of his boots, and contemplate the hell he’ll raise tomorrow. 

He _can_ do that. His mind returns to thoughts of oozing pustules, the stench of sick, and he finds he’s rather lost his appetite. 

The thing is, the thing _is_, it’s not anyone’s fault this time. There was no idolatry, no sodomy, no tower. No more than usual, anyways. No one had done a damned - or blessed - thing. The faithful claim they should weep and gnash their teeth, fall prostrate and flagellate, for it is a curse sent from God, a punishment, condemnation of their _worldliness_. That, at least, would be _something _if it were true. 

Asmodeus’ lip curls in disgust. 

It isn’t true. This is no Divine Punishment. For it to be punishment, She would have to _care_ first. 

It is no one’s fault, and isn’t that just the thing? God is _letting it happen_, no doubt for some plan of Hers. It’s terribly messy; just _terrible_ in general and he just can’t see the _point_. 

He wonders if Her angels can see the point. 

He wonders how Raphael feels about it. 

* * *

“‘M not supposed to interfere,” Raphael says, staring morosely down at the table in front of them. He’s deep into his cups already. 

Outside, a bell tolls, and there are calls to _bring out your dead. _Asmodeus leans back. 

“When has that ever stopped you in the past?” 

His angel snorts, scrubbing a hand over his face. Tired. Has he slept? Has he even stopped to rest even_ once _the last few years? Raphael came and went, followed whatever paths the plague cut through. Asmodeus is somewhat surprised he’d been able to catch him at all. 

“Hasn’t stopped me this time, either, dearheart, ’m doing what I can. Just - nothin’ _major,_ y’know? They don’t want me doing any big - _light shows_ with the faithful, no _miraculous _recoveries. At this point,” he adds, grumbling an afterthought, “_any_ recovery is miraculous.” 

“And that’s - that’s another thing, innit? These - these _physicians_. They think th’answer’s _bloodletting,_” Raphael scoffs. “I mean, bloodletting! That’s not - s’not even a _thing!_ If I try to say anything about it, it’s all, ‘oh, he’s a witch,’ ‘oh, he’s a demon,’ ‘burn him, burn him.’” 

Despite himself, Asmodeus snorts. Raphael picks at the woodgrain of their table. “They only want me working with _important _ones, ‘n each one I save, s’a dozen more dropping like flies.” He shakes his head, and in that simple movement is an eternity’s worth of pain. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen.” 

And that’s saying a lot, considering what all they’ve seen. Not even halfway through the century and already prepared to burn the lot of it down. Or, at least, hide away and sleep for a very, very long time. 

“All seems a bit _ineffable,_ doesn’t it,” Asmodeus offers, for lack of anything better to say. It’s easier to fall back into the usual argument. 

Raphael doesn’t even rise to the bait. 

* * *

He’s summoned to Hell. 

This is not an unusual occurrence - since his _promotion_ things have begun to work just slightly different Below. Technically, he never should have been spending this much time on earth in the first place; Dukes - and now _especially_ Princes - are mostly managerial as of late, more for bossing around the lesser demons than they are for going up to cause mischief themselves. Oh, sure, they get _assignments_, but it’s only ever for the big jobs. They don’t get to do anything _fun_ anymore. Not for pleasure. Not unless there’s spare time. He can’t remember the last time he’s seen Beelzebub leave zir throne. 

When talk of keeping an agent above ground semi-permanently came up in those early days, he’d all but leaped at the chance. He’s already up there so much of the time, anyways, and Hell is terribly drafty, after all, with positively horrific interior design. God’s shiny new Earth is so much more _interesting_ a place to be in. 

Now they want him down there almost_ regularly_. Want him seated in his throne to oversee his department, his minor demons of lust, like he’s some kind of - well, royalty. The throne is nice. As is the crown. And the scepter. The dragon is simply _too much_. They shouldn’t have. 

So, really, most of the time he isn’t so much summoned - after all, much to Beelzebub’s and Amon’s chagrin, the only person who can _order_ him is Lucifer himself - as he is making the commute to work. Check in on the ol’... well, dragon [3]. Make sure his lilin secretary is keeping up with his paperwork. 

His coworkers don’t like him much and he rather prefers to keep it that way. It’d be a funny old world, if Princes of Hell went around_ liking _each other. 

By the time he makes it into their meeting room, most everyone is already there - though, as always, the head of the table is still empty. Beelzebub sits at the throne’s right side, a sour expression fixed onto zir face. Another no show, then. 

Asmodeus sits primly across from Amon, who sneers. As his fellow Princes goes, he supposes he could have it worse than to stare at them; not for the first time, he idly wonders what it might be like to hold onto those great curled horns as they put those tusks to good use - 

As if sensing his thoughts, Amon’s head snaps around and they _snarl_ at him. Not even in a fun way, mostly in a... _threatening-to-disembowel_ way. Something less _person_ and more _beast._ Oh, Wrathful demons are _never_ good company. He snorts, turning away. And to think, they’ve done such good work together! They’d collaborated on many an atrocity, once upon a time. Amon is always so _picky_ when it comes to whether or not they’ll tolerate help. Talk about cold feet - or, well, hooves. 

He brushes off his part of the table with a grimace. Would it kill them to wash this once in a while? 

“Now that we are all here,” Beelzebub drones, with a pointed glare at the group’s representation for Lust, “we might begin.” 

“Oh, goodness, you weren’t really waiting for _me,_ were you?” Asmodeus settles his chin in his hand, elbow planted on the now considerably more _clean_ tabletop. “Are we not going to give our _illustrious_ Lord more of a chance to appear?” 

Down the table, Mammon snorts. There’s the barest twitch to Beelzebub’s cheek, like a fly in its death throes. Ze may want to get that looked at. “He has more important - _dutiezz_ to see to. I will be overseeing this meeting.” 

Asmodeus doesn’t bother to comment that Lucifer _always_ seems to have ‘more important duties to see to.’ He leans back into his seat, fingers steepled, as Beelzebub calls them all to order. Ze snaps zir fingers at an impish usher, pointing at the table imperiously. 

It looks up forlornly at the table, then sighs, and blinks to the surface to sit down with notepad and quill in tiny, lizard-like hand. 

“Alright, you all _already_ know why we’re here,” Beelzebub snaps. Ze very clearly wants to be here even less than the rest of them and that’s saying something. “Let’s get this over with.” 

Ze gestures for Dagon to speak, and the imp begins passing out - oh, for Satan’s sake, are those _pamphlets?_ Asmodeus idly flips through papers titled **THE BUBONIC PLAGUE AND _YOU _**and **HOW TO CAPITALIZE ON THE MASS-HYSTERIA OF NATURAL SELECTION:** _The Demon’s Guide to the Horrors Of Man. _He grimaces, mostly out of second-hand embarrassment. 

“These,” Dagon barks, garbled around their shark teeth, “‘re for yer own _edification_’n readin’ pleasure, ‘n for _brushin’ up_ your lesser’s skills. Yer reminded, Princes, that demons within y’own spheres are your responsibility t’versee.” 

Asmodeus so does truly _hate_ to listen to Dagon speak. Like shards of glass assaulting his eardrums. He sighs, rubbing his temples as he looks over the paperwork. They aren’t even a Prince. Beside him, Astaroth begins to snore. 

He really just wants to go home. But then, the thought of that, of his wonderful soft reading chair and all his books, just draws his attention back to what is going on above ground. 

Dagon has - thank_ fuck_ \- stepped down from their soapbox to allow Beelzebub to continue. Zir flock of flies buzzes menacingly as ze shifts. “This _izz_ an opportunity that cannot be wasted, Princes, with _thizzz_-” ze stops, huffs, then continue “-_this_ many _soulzz_ being lost, your underlings can-” 

Whatever ze’d been about to say about drawing souls down to hell through demonic deals is cut off quite abruptly as a _sound _rings out - a sound like that of stars being born and dying, or of a black hole if one were to listen close enough, all the sounds of entropy and chaos and eternity wrapped up in one. 

And also rather like a door slamming open. 

As one, they - all six Princes, Lord Dagon, and the imp - turn, and look upon their Lord. 

Lucifer is standing in the doorway. Despite Hell having famously terrible lighting, the Morningstar is lit from behind like the death of Heaven, the supernova of a red giant. He almost seems to suck all light out of the room, candles flickering, lanterns dimming - he draws their attention like a singularity draws matter to its core. He tips his horned head, all boyish charm, golden waves falling in perfect order ‘neath his crown. 

He smiles and it’s tinged with ichor. “Hate to be late, lads. Traffic was _murder_.” 

Asmodeus inhales sharply. 

They all stand, because that is simply what one does when one’s infernal boss has made it to a meeting for the first time since time began. Beelzebub regains control of zir zipping tongue, and bows. 

“My Lord,” ze says. 

Lucifer’s smirk grows and he pushes off from where he’d leaned against the door. “None of that, Prince Beelzebub. Please, go on. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

He stalks around the table like a lion its prey - as he passes Asmodeus, those ichor-gold eyes gleam, and his hand finds the Prince’s shoulder as easily as the breath they don’t need. Asmodeus shivers under his touch. 

He is never sure, around the Morningstar, if he’s another lion - or the_ lamb_. 

As their Lord comes to his place at the Head of the table, he pauses, and fixes the imp with a look. It swallows and averts its gaze; what it should have done was _move_. Lucifer’s shapely lip curls and with a gesture and bloodchilling squeal the usher is crushed and swept away. 

When he sits, they all sit. Beelzebub clears zir throat, and continues to talk with - to zir credit - only the barest quaver. 

Through it all, Lucifer says not a word. He sprawls in his throne, looking almost_ bored_ \- catching Asmodeus’ eye with a grin and a wink. It’s not a nice smile; it’s all teeth, and little else. 

He sits upright quite abruptly, cutting Beelzebub off once again. Zir twitch has returned. “I don’t know that all this is necessary,” Lucifer says, almost cheerily. “We know what to do when Horsemen ride, don’t we?” 

He fixes the group with a look. _“Don’t we.”_

There’s a mumble of assent. Even Amon lowers their head. 

“And anyways, one of our own has already made great strides for us during this… plague. Were you really going to remain silent on your involvement, Ashmedai?” 

And just like that, all eyes in the room turn to him, and he does his best to not look_ too_ surprised. _What is he playing at?_

Lucifer gestures, arms wide. “Truly you hadn’t thought you could surprise me - I know everything, after all, darling. It is such a clever thing to do, though. The rats were a nice touch. The perfect carriers. A little outside your usual wiles, but I did so enjoy it.” _Why is he doing this? _“Come now, Prince Ashmedai. I have not known you to be humble. Step up! Claim your accolades! Look what you have done for us - for _me_. It is a great victory.” 

Mammon’s three eyes stare unblinkingly and the table creaks under Amon’s clenched fists. All demons look at him in equal parts admiration, jealousy, and sheer _hatred_. And Beelzebub… Beelzebub is _steaming._ Vermin is, strictly, zir perview, but… Well, Asmodeus wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Even if this particular gift horse is the Father of Lies, and is telling a particularly interesting lie now for seemingly no reason at all. 

He stands, bows, offers that self-same lion’s fang smile. 

“Of course,” he says, not dropping Lucifer’s gaze. “I live to please.” 

* * *

The next days pass in relative silence - as relatively silent as a day could be, in the midst of a terrible illness ravaging the planet. He’s going to need to watch his back around Beelzebub for the next couple of millennia. It’s fine. It’s_ fine_. Satan knows - literally - why Lucifer does the things he does, but it’s fine. He shoves Asmodeus into the spotlight in front of all his most murderous coworkers but it’s_ fine_. 

He stops, breathes, sips his drink. It’s fine. 

* * *

Asmodeus had thought he’d be attacked by some of the other Princes’ underlings [4]. He hadn’t thought he’d be attacked by his _angel._

He just nips out for a quick bite to eat and a temptation; nothing wrong with a bit of fun to be had, after all. He needs something to distract him from thinking about who might attack him for being teacher’s pet, something to take his mind off of the sheer _suffering_ embedded in the very air itself, drawn in and pinpointed and analyzed by demonic senses, telling him where to go and what to say to earn himself another soul. Truth be told, Asmodeus has rather had it with collecting souls in this plague. He’s rather had it with this plague in general. It has been a year - a_ year_ \- and all it’s done is spread further and further still. 

Like nothing they’d ever seen, Raphael had said. He’d been right. This goes beyond divine or infernal punishment. In the most literal sense, seeing as it’s been outsourced. 

He had looked so _tired_. Like the world itself weighed down his shoulders. 

And then, on his walk back to where he’s staying, the world weighing Asmodeus’ angel down turned on its head. 

Literally. 

Asmodeus finds himself quite unexpectedly twisted and thrust with his back against a grimy wall, tripping over garbage and debris in this shortcut he’d taken and stumbling into a questionable puddle. He doesn’t have long to complain about it - his captor sinks their fists into his clothes and _lifts_, Asmodeus’ toes barely touching against the ground. On a reflex he kicks out; his struggle is met with a ferocious snarl, the closer press of a body, and little else. It takes embarrassingly long for his mind to catch up with his body and its panic and by the time it does he has realized his captor is not some petty sneak-thief or bandit in the night. 

The whole ordeal takes place in a matter of seconds. It felt like eternities bloomed and died in the space between them. 

He’s face to face with The Archangel Raphael, and Raphael is _not pleased._

Indeed, he rather looks furious. And it can be said that _furious,_ on an Archangel, is _bloody fucking terrifying_ for a demon. 

He shines so brightly it _burns_, a parhelion of flame outlining his flickering earthly shape. One moment it could be Raphael - the next a nest of serpent’s heads, other animals unknown to man rearing and baring their fangs before dissipating and fading back into his face. His eyes are like molten gold from the earth’s core, his hair like the tongues of fire licking at the plague-ridden homes of Pestilence’s victims, forest wings stretched wide. Reality warps around him, struggling to encompass all of his shape, twisting to accommodate - and he is utterly, _utterly_ beautiful. 

Asmodeus should feel fear, and he does, but most of what he feels in that moment is… Something decidedly _different, _to be put politely. He doesn’t even get a chance to speak. 

_“You.”_ He is snarling, ferocious, _enraged _in a way Asmodeus has never had pointed at himself - there’s something almost _exhilarating _about it. That usual glimpse of fangs to be seen behind his lips has grown more into a mouth full of needles. “This is_ your _doing_?”_

For once, Asmodeus is the one struck speechless. “I - wh -” he starts and stops, stumbles over the fragments of sentences, offers Raphael a wobbly smile. His eyes flick downwards to the angel’s lips and he wets his own. “N - ah - no idea, what you’re on about, er, dear.” 

The rough stonework of this cathedral presses into his shoulderblades uncomfortably, stinging in a way normal stone wouldn’t. He should have _known _not to pass this way. But Raphael would have found him eventually, one way or another. He seems to have a _preternatural_ sense for wherever Asmodeus is lurking. Raphael hisses and shakes him once, horrifying and radiant. Their noses are nearly touching. 

“Don’t_ start with me, Asmodeus,_ I know already, you’ve - you -” his lips curl into a snarl; Asmodeus can feel his breath on his face, “-you did_ this_. I should’ve known, I’ve let you by for centuries - for _centuries! _\- because of who you - because of who _we_ -” 

He clenches those_ gorgeous_ eyes shut in something almost like pain. Asmodeus is too focused on his heat, his Wrath, the press of their bodies and the divine dripping off of him like poison to listen. 

“-but all you’ve been doing is_ lying_ to me, this whole time, this whole_ bloody _time, wondering how I _felt about it?_ Knowing _you _were its author?” Raphael breaks himself off to laugh, wretched. “The rats. I should’ve known, huh. Haven’t even got anything to say for yourself.” 

Asmodeus grips Raphael’s wrists, twisting furiously. 

“Just what are you_ on _about, Raphael? What _rats?”_

“Oh, really? ‘What rats?’ D’you think I’m _stupid_? Maybe _naive,_ maybe - maybe _gullible,_ but _stupid?_ I’ve spoken to my sister, Asmodeus [5]. She’s told me all ‘bout your - your little_ dalliance _below, your _collab _with Pestilence. Dunno why I’m _surprised._” 

He goes very, very still in Raphael’s grip. “My _collab? _What -” 

And then he realizes and it comes across his face like dawn. He tips his head skyward in disgust. “Oh, that - _fiend. _Raphael, this plague, it isn’t - it isn’t _me.”_

Asmodeus would never, not like this, but he cannot possibly say so. Raphael scoffs, pushing on. 

“No, _really,_ it _wasn’t._ Hell was offering me a commendation,” he explains further, grimacing and shifting on his toes. This is really quite uncomfortable, though already the angel’s grip is slacking. “I wasn’t - my dear boy, I wasn’t going to just - _not _take credit for something that was _out of my hands _already going on, it’s too _easy_ an opportunity to pass.” 

Raphael drops Asmodeus, backing off. He looks wrecked, looks _sickened,_ and that is even worse than the holy fury. Asmodeus scrambles to his feet, prepared to run and _righteously_ indignant. He straightens his coat in irritation. 

They both stare at each other, half-ready to bolt. Raphael is looking at him like he’s some particularly interesting serpent that he isn’t sure yet is venomous. “Wh - why should I believe you? You’re a _demon.”_

And that, that stings almost worse than the holiness. Asmodeus stands taller. 

“Have I ever lied to you, Raphael?” 

The Archangel swallows. His wings are delicately tucked away. 

“No,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. 

_“Well then.”_ Asmodeus raises his chin, tone biting. Raphael flinches. “Perhaps you may want to, in future, consider _asking first_ before accosting me, my dear. Not that I don’t appreciate the sore back I will be dealing with for the next few days. Perhaps this may be something to consider in the bedroom at a later date?” 

Raphael takes a step forward, but Asmodeus holds up a hand. “_No_, I think you’ve done quite enough for one night, thank you.” 

He backs off, suitably cowed. “Right. ‘Course. Er. As-”. 

“Good _night,_ my dear boy.” 

Asmodeus walks away with a pace so brisk it could have frozen over the ground itself. 

As soon as he is behind a safely closed door he sinks to the floor, miracles himself a suitable drink, and handles_ his self _accordingly. 

He’d be lying if that righteous wrath wasn’t just a little… eye-opening. 

* * *

He was never in any danger from Raphael. He knows this. Even so, he can’t draw his mind away from the night. The angel had seemed so… betrayed. Shocked. Like he hadn’t thought Asmodeus capable of such horror. 

It’s almost laughable. He’s a _demon,_ of course he can do_ horror. _Raphael would be so disappointed to know all the things Asmodeus does on a daily basis. 

But not this. Never this. Asmodeus could never be the author of this tragedy - Satan only knows how Heaven had caught wind of his would-be ‘evil doings.’ 

Raphael’s fury remains all that Asmodeus can think about for the next week and a half. Indeed, it’s what he’s thinking about when the angel in question finds him in their usual tavern yet again. 

“Ah. Raphael,” Asmodeus greets him neutrally, watching the Archangel’s anxiously twitching hands by his sides. “Come to push me up against a wall and threaten me again, my dear?” 

“No,” Raphael responds, sitting across from him. He folds his hands on the tabletop. “I’ve come to make a deal.” 

Asmodeus’s brow quirks, amused, and he sets his chin in his hand to listen. 

It is that night that they create the first draft of their Arrangement. In its most early stages, its purpose to provide them with… accountability, of a sorts. A way out. An alibi. It’s to prevent such misunderstandings as that night had held and will include minor temptations and miracles done for each other - something the two had already been doing, unmentioned, for quite some time. 

It will prove to be a very useful deal, indeed. 

* * *

**-Florence, Italy, 1503 AD-**

Art’s always been a human pastime. As soon as they could figure it out, they were drawing stick figures on cave walls and trying to express themselves through simple music [6]. Both Raphael and Asmodeus have always found it to be a more interesting pastime, something to spark the senses and ignite the soul in a way other things simply couldn’t manage. As one might predict, Heaven and Hell both claimed it as their own _marvelous_ invention. Neither the angel nor demon gave much protest and both took credit. 

But somewhere around the 400s, things had gone a bit _downhill _in Raphael’s opinion [7]. Heaven had been positively thrilled with the changes. After all, it was mostly down to the Catholics. Heaven hadn’t even loved them for their politics or beliefs, merely the simple fact that they were completely and utterly repressed. Art became dreadfully, painfully dull and a little bit laughable. Had any of them ever seen an animal in their lives? He’s pretty sure they hadn’t, given the depictions. 

Needless to say, it’d been a miserable near thousand years and one Raphael does not feel any amount of nostalgia for. So when the humans finally, _finally _get around to discovering secular humanism in their art, Raphael is _more_ than thrilled. Heaven mourns the boring, beige interpretations of Saints and devils, holding a rather morose meeting over the whole ordeal to decide where to go next. Raphael much prefers paintings that look like an actual person and not a horrifying amalgamation of parts vaguely resembling a man, but he keeps that to himself. 

It’s around this time that he runs into a man in Florence. 

He’s been watching the Guild of Saint Luke with some interest. All those artists and like-minded individuals in one place, it’s quite fascinating to him. In fact, he’s considering joining, just for something to do. Doctors are allowed in and he supposes he is one, in a way. He certainly has an easier time with _that_ than with a paintbrush. But it’s not the sort of thing you just _join_, so he sticks around the fringes for the time being, deliberating on his options. 

It’s mid October when he hears them talking about Leonardo returning from his travels. A military architect, they say with some amount of bafflement, never having pegged him for the sort for that work. It’s a few months more until he meets the man himself. He’d been conjuring images of a straight-laced old man. Someone with a witless sense of humor and a stick up his ass. Sure, he’s created some beautiful pieces, Raphael can admit that much. He’d gotten curious, at some point or another, and gone to look. They’re stunning, yes, but don’t do much to change his impression of the man. 

He finds himself a little bit smitten within five minutes of their meeting, the man that introduced them fading into the background as they drift together. 

Leonardo is kind and reserved, a soft smile gracing his lips as Raphael strikes up conversation [8]. Without realizing quite where they’ve gone off to, the hours have passed and they’re sharing a drink at a local tavern. He learns that the man is a vegetarian, likes to wear rather hideous clothing, and has the sharpest mind of anyone he’s ever met in 5500 years. 

They fall into a quick and easy friendship. In all the years he's been on earth, Raphael hasn’t really spared a second glance for any of the humans for friendship or otherwise. Their lives are too short, too fleeting, for a being of his longevity to get properly attached. And unlike Asmodeus, he doesn’t see the point in quick flings or meaningless sex. It can get tangled up quite quickly and it’s not a mess he really wants to deal with, outside of the two of them. 

And yet… and _yet_. 

Leonardo is beautiful. Not only in the physical, but his mind. He isn’t just an artist, but a _scientist_. Yes, he believes in art and love and all that the free thinkers of the world claim to adore, but he’s also endlessly fascinated by the way things _work_. It makes something clench uncomfortably in Raphael’s chest, something he hasn’t quite felt around anyone other than that blasted demon. It’s startling and terrifying and- well, it’s _nice_, is what it is. A bit of a change, something new, something… 

He’s gifted with a sketch of Lisa del Giocondo, a noblewoman. At the time, he has no idea just how famous the finished work will be and yet he treasures it like it’s made of gilded gold. 

When he excitedly shows the sketch to Asmodeus during one of their meetings, Asmodeus just snorts a little with a shake of his head. “You’re _in love_ with him.” 

Raphael nearly chokes on the sip of wine he’d taken, sputtering and setting his glass down rather hastily. “I- he- why would you- _what_?” 

There’s something half amused in Asmodeus’ gaze, half something else Raphael can’t quite place. He twirls the wine in his glass, leaned back against his chair. “You’re not good at hiding your feelings, my dear. I’m sorry to say it, but you’re terribly easy to read.” 

A flush is riding high on Raphael’s cheeks, climbing all the way to the tips of his ears. “He’s a _friend_. Ever heard of those?” 

“Oh, certainly. And as someone with plenty of _friends_, I can tell the difference.” 

Raphael glares, grumbling a little as he crosses his arms over his chest and turns his head. Before he can formulate a response, Asmodeus is continuing on. “I must remind you, though, that he _is _a human. This- Leonardo of yours. He _will _die. Let this be a lesson, Raphael. Perhaps the most valuable one I can ever teach you. _Sentiment _is the greatest weakness of all.” 

A flicker of hurt crosses Raphael’s features but he quickly schools it, lips pulling into a thin line. “If _that’s _true, then it’s a lesson I’d rather not learn,” he mumbles, hand shooting out to pick his glass up again and take a long gulp before he stands up. “Guess we should get to it, then. Coming?” he asks, tilting his head towards the street. They’ve got a temptation and blessing to do today and he’d rather get it over with, suddenly wanting to be as far away from the demon as possible. 

Asmodeus watches him like he knows exactly what he’s feeling, but he stands anyway. “Lead the way, my dear boy.” 

This conversation does nothing to sway Raphael from seeking out the painter’s company and, indeed, within the year they are so fully entrenched in one another that to see Leonardo without Raphael and vice versa is an _oddity_. 

In time, it grows into more. 

* * *

**-Milan, Italy, 1508 AD-**

There is a knock at his door. 

It’s not his door, not really - he’d been staying with Leonardo for quite some time now, almost five years in fact. They’ve been traveling back and forth from Florence and Milan- commissions here, estate dealings with Leonardo’s brothers there, and have finally decided on settling down near a lovely little parish in Milan for the time being. It’s not perfect, by any stretch, but that’s less to do with the man himself and more to do with the unfortunate human habit of _judgement_. Still, Raphael can only recall one time in his life he’d felt so at peace. 

The guest at the door knocks again, slightly more insistent this time, a quick but firm _taptaptap _against the old wood. 

Raphael breathes out a small, irritated sigh. Probably one of the nuns from next door, or one of Leonardo’s friends. If he’s incredibly unlucky, it might even be his demon, though he highly doubts that as Asmodeus tends to let himself in wherever he wishes to go. Raphael sits up in bed, taking a moment to appreciate the soft rise and fall of Leonardo’s chest. He has a habit of sleeping on his back, which Raphael thinks is classifiable as a deadly sin. He smiles, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. 

_Taptaptap_. 

“Alright, _alright_, I’m coming-” he snaps, sliding out of bed. With a flick of his hand, he’s redressed and presentable. It really wouldn’t do to get imprisoned over something as careless as a nightgown and a few _implications_. 

As if whoever’s at the door is waiting a precise fifteen seconds between knocking, it starts up again. Before they can finish, Raphael is yanking the door open. 

In front of the door stands a rather short, severe looking angel. She’s got a scowl seemingly permanently etched on her features and has the sort of air that suggests she’d rather be anywhere but earth. The way an upper class businessman might react to being told they had business to conduct in a sewer. 

“Er- hello,” he greets, feeling suddenly rather exposed. After the whole nephilim business, it probably wouldn’t win him any favors to be caught dallying with a human. 

“Archangel Raphael.” Her tone is dry, not meeting his eyes as she pulls out a piece of parchment from the satchel slung over her side. “Congratulations, you’ve been given a commendation,” she announces with all the enthusiasm of a particularly unenthused piece of kelp, handing over the paper. As soon as he takes it, she gives him a curt nod and disappears with a resounding _pop_. 

Well, that doesn’t bode well. Typically these sorts of things turn out to be nothing at all- not that he’d ever looked into it too closely before, but this time… He feels an odd sort of swoop in his stomach, settling low and _cold_. There’s something about this. Something feels _wrong_. 

He keeps it on his person, doing his best to ignore it, for _hours._ He wanders their manse with it, waters his plants, dusts things that blatantly do not require dusting. Anything to prolong avoiding this ominous little envelope which burns a hole in his clothes where it is tucked against his breast. It must be nothing, right? Nothing at all. Certainly. Just another little commendation for whichever silly thing was going on in some distant corner of the world, something he could continue to ignore in favor of this life he’s found. He’s being paranoid. 

It’s obviously nothing. 

Still, best give it a look. It might be entertaining. That’s it. An entertaining little note he can tell Asmodeus about later. 

He takes a deep breath, settles at Leonardo’s writing desk, and breaks the golden seal his commendation is bound with. As soon as his eyes alight upon the words, that sinking swoop in his stomach freezes into a glacier. 

* * *

Raphael is still staring at the notice when Leonardo wakes. He notes Raphael’s mood with the air of one who knows his partner better than himself. “What is it, _cuore mio?_” 

He doesn’t look up from the divine message. He can’t tear his eyes away from it. “I - something has come up. With, er, work. Back in Spain, y’know, where I’m a uh. With my. Family winery. You remember. Told you about that. Must’ve.” 

Leonardo takes Raphael’s arm in his, fondly, leaning wholly against his side. Raphael folds up the missive surreptitiously. 

“Nothing bad, I hope,” the artist murmurs. Raphael swallows. 

“N-no. Nothin’ bad at all. Well, I mean, family issues, you know how it is. I’ll - I have to leave for Spain immediately, I think, I’ll need-” he waves his hands in a vague gesture of which even he is uncertain of the meaning. Leonardo frowns, nodding against his shoulder. 

“Of course. We shall leave henceforth.” 

Raphael realizes his mistake as soon as the words leave his mouth. 

“Oh, no, n- no, Leo, I don’t - that’s probably not a good idea. You should... Stay here. I won’t be gone long, I mean, I don’t think it’s_ that_ kind of issue, just business, a formality. Won’t be gone long at all.” He takes a breath and forces a smile. “I’ll be back. Back before you know it, soon as I can. Promise.” 

He shouldn’t make promises he doesn’t know he can keep. 

* * *

**-Spain, 1508 AD-**

It could be said that _no one expected the Spanish Inquisition_. 

This is false. Plenty of people did, most of them decidedly not Catholic. It wasn’t unexpected at all. Plenty of those affected _expected _it. The issue was that no one else_ listened_. 

Raphael, certainly, had not expected to receive a commendation for something - after all, the last time he had been in Spain had been to 'bless' their wineries. Someone had to do it, after all. The wine wasn’t going to make itself. He hadn’t exactly been lying to Leonardo about this - though they aren't, directly, _his _wineriesthey _are _wineries that he has a vested interest in. Everyone needs hobbies. He hadn’t been there terribly long before word reached his ears of some nondescript ‘terrible injustices’ committed by the Catholic church, yet again, and had assumed it would simply blow over. The catholics were always up in a tizzy about something or another after all. Best not worry about it. 

He’d leave shortly afterwards to explore Italy at Asmodeus’ behest, and it’s some thirty or so years later that he receives his commendation, returns to Spain, and realizes just how very wrong that assumption had been. 

* * *

Raphael had left. Raphael had _left_, without so much as a _word _to Asmodeus about it. And, most humiliating of all, he’d had to find out from that damned _human_. 

He’d hoped his little talk with Raphael would make him reconsider this ridiculously ill thought out entanglement,though it was perhaps a foolish hope given his angel’s propensity to get _attached_. If asked, Raphael might deny it, but Asmodeus had been around for all the humans he’d taken in under his wing, though this one is undeniably _different_. Asmodeus is not jealous, not in the slightest. He simply doesn’t see the point in it, especially when they’ve got important things to _do _and Raphael is nowhere to be found. 

Which is why he’d showed up at the artist’s house, hoping to find Raphael and give him a piece of his mind about the fact that they’d agreed that he’d travel up to Austria to perform a temptation for Asmodeus and yet the demon hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him for a _month_. 

What he hadn’t expected was Leonardo to be there alone, looking rather fretful as he’d asked if Asmodeus had been in contact with Raphael since he’d left for Spain, muttering something about ‘family business’. 

Spain. _Spain. _

Asmodeus hadn’t waited for Leonardo to finish his sentence before he’d spun on his heel and stalked away. Raphael_ left?_ _Without _him? When he was the one who had asked him to Italy in the first place? The _nerve_. 

Well, he wouldn’t stand for it. 

When he gets there, Spain has metaphorically lit itself on fire, proceeded to throw gasoline on said fire, and decided to throw an extravagant party in the flames. If parties involved thousands of dead and humans turning on each other in suspicion and fear, that is. It’s then that the annoyance he’d felt towards Raphael turns into something suspiciously close to worry. 

This must’ve been why he left. The two of them tend to keep out of things, really, letting the humans do what they will and watching the dice land where they may. Little nudges here and there, sure, but humans have a remarkable propensity for doing their dirty work for them. If Asmodeus hadn’t heard about this, he’s sure Raphael hadn’t either. Until _something _happened. Something bad enough to get him leaving the little _love nest_ he’d created. 

It takes him a few days to find his angel and when he does he can’t help but feel he’s seen a similar scene before, back when a kind young man from Nazareth had been killed. Of course, it’s taken no encouragement from the demon at all this time to get Raphael to hole up in a cantina with far too much to drink. 

Apparently having long forgone the barstools or tables, Raphael is sat on the floor in a quieter corner, nursing what looks to be an entire bottle of wine. It isn’t the only one, and it _definitely_ isn’t his first of the night. His hair is matted and stringy, mud caked into his clothes, golden eyes dulled. He sniffs and brings the bottle to his lips, looking forlorn and irritated when it proves empty. With a very _general _wave of his hand it’s full, again, to the point of overspilling. 

He looks like a _goddamned mess_. He looks like a disaster zone. He looks like there should be a sign around his neck that reads ‘here there be dragons.’ Asmodeus hopes to - _someone_ that those rusty stains on his clothes aren’t what they look like. 

Despite- or perhaps because of- the worry he’s feeling, he waits. He leans against the wall, arms folding across his chest as he takes in the sorry mess before him. As he watches, Raphael again calls for more - evidently too drunk to miracle it himself by this point. This time, he is shut down by the bartend himself. He is a lanky man, sunken cheeks no doubt hiding behind the full beard he’s sporting, and he looks less than enthused with Raphael’s continued patronage. He says a few choice words to the angel, and the angel spits a few choice words back - none of them too polite. 

“That’s it, I’m ‘fraid I’m gonna have to cut you off,” grumbles the man, who has seen far too many drunks in his time; enough to drink an entire generation of vineyard owners out of house and home and then some. 

“Gonna cut _you _off,” Raphael replies sullenly. He reaches out for more of the wine he’d been nursing, no doubt not bothering to pause and consider the finer points of its flavor in a way that makes Asmodeus cringe. Please. These things are meant to be savored. The barkeep’s hand settles firmly on his shoulder before he can. 

“Going to have to ask you to leave, sir,” the man reiterates, patience wearing thin but not quite thin enough to affect his polite demeanor just yet. Raphael scoffs and rolls his eyes, which doesn’t help matters. He lurches upwards unsteadily. 

“Oh? What’ll you-” he grabs at a nearby chair for balance “-ff_fuckin’_ do t’me, huh, _sssir? _‘m an Archangel, y’know- can’t- hurt me._” _He leans closer, as if he’s spilling some great secret. Of course, he is, but the barkeep has heard far stranger from his patrons than a drunk claiming to be a bloody Archangel. 

“Oh? And I’m the Pope,” the barkeep returns flatly, taking Raphael’s arm in a firm grip that leaves very little question as to what he intends to do. 

Until now, Asmodeus has just been watching from his place against the wall and getting strange looks from other customers, but he decides it’s better if he steps in now lest Raphael decide to unleash his holy, drunken wrath on an unsuspecting human. 

He steps off from the wall, approaching the scene. “Excuse me, sir-” The barkeep looks over at him, clearly ready to brush him off. “My friend here- he’s clearly going through…” he flounders a moment for a word that could possibly describe Raphael’s current state, “..._something._ Is all this truly necessary? I’m sure we can work out some sort of-” 

_“You’re_ responsible for this sop?” the man interrupts, irritation dripping from his words. Raphael looks at Asmodeus for the first time and breathes his name like a prayer. 

“Well, I-” 

“Because _he-”_ the man shakes Raphael once for emphasis, causing the angel to pout rather pathetically “-has been scaring off my patrons for the past two _weeks _with this nonsense, and frankly, I’ve half a mind to throw him to the pigs and you, too, just for knowin’ him.” 

Asmodeus flounders. “Now, I don’t know that that’s - that is to say, rather, that I - we -” he stops and takes in a sharp breath, forcing calm. It would be too much effort and negative attention, causing a disaster here now. He can use his words. “We will just be leaving, then, shall we?” 

The man’s eyes narrow suspiciously, but his grip on Raphael eases. “Get outta here.” Asmodeus breathes a sigh of relief, and he takes the angel’s arm much more gently in return. Crisis averted. They’ve almost made it to the door- 

Raphael shifts, muttering something rude and not to be repeated even by Princes of Hell under his breath. The barkeep’s nostrils flare. 

Well. They’d nearly gotten out of this without incident. 

Before you can say ‘Spanish Tickler’ [9]**,** they’re being shoved out the door with little ceremony. Asmodeus stumbles, nearly tripping but catching himself against the side of the cantina just in time. Raphael isn’t so lucky, tumbling over face first into the mud just outside the door. He lays there, alarmingly still. If he were a human, one might mistake him for having _died_. 

Asmodeus does _not _kneel beside him, but he does poke him with the toe of his boot. “Raphael?” 

No response. 

Asmodeus pokes him_ again, _perhaps more of a shove this time._ “Raphael.”_

That one earns him a groan. Acceptable. He sighs, stoops to take one of the angel’s arms over his shoulders, and lifts. “There you are. Let’s get you somewhere safe, shall we?” 

Raphael leans heavily against him, fetid breath ghosting over his face and forked tongue flicking. _“Assssmodeuss_,” he breathes, batting his eyelashes in a way that’s supposed to be alluring but instead just makes him look like he’s developed some sort of a twitch. He clings close, grasps at the fabric of his coat in his hands, leaning in- and Asmodeus is simply _not _going to allow this. 

“My dear, even if you weren’t fantastically inebriated at the moment, you smell like a distillery. Not to mention the blood- clearly not even yours, is it?” 

Raphael’s gaze goes a little distant at that, lip wobbling. “No, ‘s not.” 

Asmodeus sighs, feeling a small pang in his chest at all that implies. “I thought not. No, none of that. You can barely stand up. Come. We’ll get you sorted - maybe even _clean_, if you still remember the meaning of the word.” 

With a flick of his wrist Asmodeus hides them easily from the humans’ perception, not wanting any trouble as they make their way to the nearest inn. It’s quite easy booking a room, when you have all the infernal powers of Hell at your disposal to orchestrate it. No one will bother them, and that is exactly what he needs. 

As soon as they are safe in the room, he deposits Raphael heavily onto the bed. “Wait here,” he murmurs. The angel simply gives a sniff in response, curling on his side as he presses his face to the cool pillows. 

Asmodeus takes in a breath, reaches to touch, to, to _hold _\- no. Not yet. Not until Raphael is clean, anyways. What had he seen, to have this reaction? What did they _do?_ Raphael is too soft for the horrors of men, too… _too_. He’s known it since Abel’s death, since the Flood, since, well. Everything. But _this_. Seeing his angel in such a state - he’s lying if he says it doesn't affect him on some level. Good thing demons lie, especially to themselves. 

He rises and crosses the room, fills the basin in the corner with a gesture. This will have to do. He could clean Raphael with a miracle, but he’d rather not have to deal with the resulting mess - they can use their powers on each other, and easily, but it isn’t the _greatest _sensation when drunk. They’d found that out the hard way a few centuries back. 

He draws forth towels from his plane of Hell, finds himself soft oils and soaps for Raphael’s hair. It _will _do. He’ll make _sure of it,_ if he has to scare the washing basin into it himself. 

The basin cowers. Asmodeus hums, pleased. 

He wakes Raphael with a gentle hand on his back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades before he draws the pliant angel to a seat beside the Hell-warmed water. 

“You’ll have to get undressed, my dear.” Asmodeus shoots him a look, preemptively, but Raphael is already obeying, clumsy as his movements might be. He gives up with a little huff, waving a hand in a movement that leaves him stripped bare. Asmodeus gives a nod and begins - slowly, at first - to wash him. He passes the cloth over his limbs, first, arms and hands, scrubbing blood from beneath his nails. Already the water has gone murky, and Asmodeus cleanses it with a sigh. 

As he does so, Raphael watches him with this- this _look _in his eyes, one Asmodeus doesn’t quite want to delve into just now. Really, the angel should be far too gone for a look like that. Tender, like Asmodeus has gone and proposed _marriage_. Disgusting. He takes in a sharp breath, clearing his throat as does his best to ignore it. Shoulders, next- easy. Those go by without a hitch. Neck and chest, tipping Raphael’s head back to get under his chin… his eyes are still drink-dulled, but less so than before. The softest sigh leaves his lips as Asmodeus moves on to his stomach and then his thighs, touch still gentle. 

Asmodeus swallows, and moves on. He kneels, slips his hand just below Raphael’s knee to lift into his lap and run the cloth over the soles of his feet. He’s sure there’s some sort of religious symbolism here, though he’d been there for the whole thing and he can tell you with some certainty that foot washing hadn’t quite been what it sounds like. He handles the angel’s ankle delicately, pressing a kiss to his now-clean knee. Above him, Raphael releases a shuddery breath at the prickle of facial hair against his skin and places his hand,_ so delicately,_ on his head. Like a benediction. Jesus blessing Judas. Asmodeus’ thought processes rapidly come to a screeching halt, forehead resting against that knee for the barest moment of self-indulgence. 

The moment passes. 

He washes him until the water is dark with filth, then refreshes it and goes on. It is several more basins’ worth of water before Asmodeus is remotely pleased with the progress. Through it all, Raphael’s blessed-accursed eyes follow his every movement and he - he can’t go on like this. 

“Tip your head back for me,” he says, rising in a swift movement. 

Raphael clutches at him, something like a whimper caught in his throat. “Asmodeus-” 

“Hush. Not now, my dear. Do as I say.” 

He does, tilting his head back obediently, all the trust in the world. Asmodeus carefully doesn’t let his gaze linger on the pale expanse of his throat, instead refilling the basin and conjuring a small cup in his hand. That hair of flame, gone rusted in this disuse, tumbles into the basin like a waterfall. 

Asmodeus draws his hands down along it, a slow caress, teasing tangles free with a comb manifested from the ether. Under his deft touch the mats disintegrate, massaging soap into his scalp to lift grease and grime. He’d always admired Raphael’s hair- always wondered what it would feel like to run his hands through it in affection, be able to touch it as carelessly and openly as lovers do, instead of this quiet secret thing like he’s going to be caught with his hand in the metaphorical cookie jar. 

He passes the cloth over Raphael’s forehead, rinses his hair as gently as he is able. “There. All done. Wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

The shake of Raphael’s head could almost be a shudder. “I-” he starts, voice breaking and something delicate breaking in those eyes. 

Asmodeus kisses his brow. He cannot resist it. He’ll allow himself this tenderness. It’s not as if Raphael is going to remember it, come morning. “Let’s get you to bed.” 

Raphael nods numbly, and allows his naked self to be bundled into a waiting blanket, subtly warmed by a spark of infernal magic. As he falls against the soft mattress, his grip on Asmodeus strengthens and pulls him down with him. Before Asmodeus can react, he’s being dragged into a desperate, half-drunk kiss, and Raphael is reaching for him, reaching for his chest and his hair and his sides and- 

Asmodeus pushes himself off, a hand braced on the angel’s chest as he moves to sit beside him. Raphael is sitting up after him, pawing at the cloth of his shirt. “_Please_,” he begs, gold eyes swimming with unshed tears. “Please, please- I can’t- I need-” his breath is far too quick, like he’s come up from the ocean. 

Carefully, gently, Asmodeus catches his hands from where they’re buried in his shirt. He slides their fingers together, bringing them up to brush a light kiss against his knuckles. 

“Raphael. I care about you far, far too much to allow you to do this to yourself,” he admits, quiet and entirely too earnest. He’s not sure what drives him to say it, to let it out in the open like that. Perhaps it’s the haunted look in his angel’s eyes, the fact that he’s never quite seen him like this. 

He’s never stuck around long enough to. 

Raphael’s bottom lip trembles, searching his face. Like the weight of the world’s been lifted from his shoulders, he deflates- collapsing into his arms. He buries his face against his neck, thin frame trembling as his nails dig into his back. Asmodeus bites back a wince, instead pulling him closer. 

It’s been… quite some time, since they’ve been so close. Often, Asmodeus finds himself wondering if inviting Raphael to Italy had been a mistake. Five years isn’t much in the grand scheme of things but it had felt like an awfully long time. He hadn’t quite realized how much until now. 

He shifts and rests his chin on top of Raphael’s damp, now-clean hair. “Oh, my angel,” he murmurs, feeling the chill settling into the water against his lips. “What brought this on? That bartender said you had been in there for _weeks._” 

Raphael sniffs, hiding a whine against Asmodeus’s throat. “Got a - a _commendation,_” he says, hiccuping. “I didn’t - _didn’t_. Didn’t do this, ssswear.” 

“Ah,” says Asmodeus, faint. Really, there’s little else to say. Once again, he finds himself wondering how Raphael does it. How he hasn’t Fallen, yet. Not that he would _want _him to; the thought makes his stomach turn. With a small sigh, he presses a kiss to his damp hair and begins to rock him. It feels both familiar and deeply, _deeply _unfamiliar, all at once. 

“I- ‘s just- they do this. All by themselves. You don’t even- don’t even have to help ‘em. Doesn’t _matter_. None of it- nothin’ I do matters.” The words are muffled against Asmodeus’ neck, but Raphael doesn’t seem to notice. “‘nd then they go and- and they give me a _commendation _for it, like ‘s a good thing. Like it’s not-” he breaks off with a heartbroken noise, burrowing further against him. His tears are damp against his skin and Asmodeus starts to card his fingers through his hair. 

Unbidden, the words to comfort leap to Asmodeus’ lips like they’ve always been there, just waiting for their chance. “Hush, my dear boy, hush. They don’t know what goes on down here, you know that. You say they’re so _good _\- if they were, if they _knew_, they’d be sending you to stop it, wouldn’t they?” 

Raphael sniffs, again, and nods silently. Asmodeus slips his hand through his hair, drying it with a touch, a small thing he’s sure Raphael is too far gone to feel the effects of. “Sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.” 

It’s easy to tell the lie. Raphael sleeps. 

Asmodeus lays him down onto the bed, and retreats. 

* * *

Raphael wakes with a_ pounding _headache - not an unusual occurrence - and Asmodeus’s company - which _is_ anunusual occurrence. In fact, so unusual that it’s never happened even once before in their more than five thousand years of… whatever they are to each other. Their acquaintanceship, let’s say. He lifts his head groggily, pulling wild but_ clean _hair from his mouth, and finds Asmodeus sitting beside him - like this is something they do often, all the time, and nothing out of the ordinary at all. 

“Ah,” he says, almost cheerily. “Finally awake, are you? You sleep with your mouth open, you know. Like a _baby bird._” 

Raphael grumbles, and shoves at him. Asmodeus does his best to not be too terribly offended. “Now, that’s no way to treat someone after a night like that at all.” 

_“Fuck_. What did we - _did _we…?” he gestures vaguely with his hand. Asmodeus snorts. 

“In that state I found you? Absolutely not. Don’t flatter yourself, dear.” 

Even with this denial, he refuses to make eye contact, and Raphael can’t understand why. Perhaps it’s something to ponder later. For now, trying to think about anything too terribly hard just hurts more. He whines pathetically, burying his face in the pillow that’s no longer so blessedly cold. 

“There, there. It’ll pass.” Asmodeus pats his bare shoulder ineffectively, and then hops free of the blankets to leave Raphael’s suffering in silence. 

Somehow, distantly, Raphael appreciates him having been there at all. 

* * *

He doesn’t leave Spain right away - not right away at all, in fact. The pain never goes away and neither does the horror, but he can hardly run away from_ this_, can he? Already once he disregarded it. He won’t be doing that again. He’ll stay, and he’ll help, and he’ll try very _very _hard not to think of Italy and the life he’s left behind there, the lover that’s waiting for him. That sort of happiness isn’t something he’s meant for. 

He’s an Archangel, after all. 

In time, he’ll return. 

In time. 

* * *

Although Asmodeus leaves that morning, he stays in the ways that count. Of course, he comes and goes, but he’s always there when Raphael calls. Some small, selfish part of him is glad he never returns to Italy. 

There’s a lot of work to be done, here. With so much chaos, no one from down there bothers to ask about it. 

Time goes on. 

* * *

Raphael was going to make it back to Italy. He_ \- _he _was_. He made a promise, after all. It was just - just… in time. He would make it back in time. 

In time, but not _in time_. 

When Leonardo dies eleven years later and Raphael comes home to Italy eleven years too little and too late, he knows he won’t make this mistake again. It’s better, watching the humans from a distance. In the end, they’d only ever had a measly five years together, but the loss sticks in his chest as heavy as lead. 

He tucks away the sketch among his other mementos from the years and resolves himself to listen to Asmodeus more often, when it came to matters of the heart. _Sentiment. _The greatest weakness, indeed. 

He also very carefully avoids thinking about _anything_ involving Spain for the next several centuries. 

* * *

**-London, England, 1862 AD-**

The world keeps turning in its stubborn, resilient way. They meet Shakespeare, Raphael has to save Asmodeus from the guillotine because he’d wanted _crepes_, Asmodeus opens up a bookshop full of sordid things, and they continue to adhere to their Arrangement. They’ll flip for it, sometimes, but more typically it’s simply _easier_. There’s no arguments like there had been during the Plague, or unmitigated disasters like Spain, and things are going rather smoothly. 

Lately, they’ve been seeing more of each other. Meeting up every couple of years to discuss their various advancements and suggest ways the other one can balance them out. Soon it’s every couple of months, rather than years. And eventually, they’ve come to this: weekly meetings at St. James Park where they feed the ducks and chat about their work, as much as one can chat about the things an angel and a demon get up to. At least they usually mean to. Half the time, it ends up being the two of them talking about whatever happens to cross their minds. Afterwards they find their way to someone’s bedroom or a lovely hotel, and - well, that’s no one’s business but theirs. 

As it happens, Raphael is tossing pieces of torn up bread to the ducks [10] while Asmodeus stands by him, his hands primly crossed in front of him as he watches the exchange. They’re getting a few odd looks, but it isn’t for any suspicion that they’re an angel, demon, or even conspicuous spies. Mostly, it’s because Raphael absolutely refuses to cut his hair any shorter than his ears which is decidedly _not _the style. Asmodeus can’t decide whether he’s endeared or finds the whole thing distasteful. Though, he supposes he’s never really paid much attention to what the humans find fashionable either. Which is probably adding to the stares they’re getting- his clean shaven face that seems remarkably younger than his usual choice of form, a hint of makeup at the eyes, and decidedly too few layers for the era. Never mind. He’s learned to ignore their opinions long ago. A beard wouldn’t quite work with the ensemble he sports this era, anyways. 

For the past few minutes, he’s been working himself up to ask something of his angel. He knows, already, that he won’t like it. Knows him well enough to know he’s going to get some indignant sputtering. But he’s certain he can convince him, at any rate. He’s thinking about a way to broach it, when Raphael does the job for him quite spectacularly. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts, “what if it all goes wrong? We have a lot in common, you and I.” 

Asmodeus shifts a bit at that, glancing towards the ducks. “I don’t know. We were both angels, once, but I- am fallen.” It’s not something that brings up any sort of painful memories, for which he’s glad. He remembers nothing of Heaven, but a feeling of love and a feeling of love _lost_. He is who he is, now, and it’s simply a fact of life. 

Raphael, on the other hand, looks the slightest bit stricken. “It’s not like you meant to.” 

“Of course I did. Otherwise, why would I be here?” It’s common sense, really. He must’ve _chosen _to fall, musn’t he have? “At any rate, I’ve been thinking about that too, actually. I do understand our agreement- to stay out of each other’s way, lend a hand, but I do have a favor to ask. For… something else.” He clears his throat, unwilling to meet the Archangel’s gaze as it turns to him. 

“If it all goes pear-shaped?” 

“I do so enjoy pears.” He pauses, distracted a moment before he circles back around to the subject at hand. “But, yes. I want… insurance. If it all goes wrong.” Glancing around to make sure they’re completely alone, at least from their ilk, he slides over a folded piece of paper. “Walls have ears, of course. You understand.” 

“Well, not walls. Trees. _Ducks_! Do ducks have ears? Must do. That’s how they hear other ducks.” [11] Raphael is talking nearly to himself at this point and Asmodeus can’t help but sigh, though it’s juxtaposed with a fond quirk of his lips. 

The smile is wiped off his face when Raphael reads the note and immediately turns to him, looking as if Asmodeus had struck him. “Wh- n- Asmodeus, no! Absolutely not!” 

For all he’d expected the righteous indignation, Asmodeus still finds himself standing straighter and feeling rather _defensive_. “Why _not_?” 

“It’s-” Raphael cuts himself off, leaning in close, his voice slipping into that hiss that only comes when he’s not being careful enough to stop it. “It would _dessstroy you_. Absolutely out of the question. I won’t bring you a- a _fucking _ssuicide pill!” 

Asmodeus prickles, jaw ticking slightly. “Language, dear,” he gets out, forcing a patience he’s not feeling. “All I want it for is insurance.” 

Raphael is visibly upset, his hands clenching by his sides. “I’m not- stupid, Asmodeus. If my siblings find out we’ve been fraternizing, it won’t be pretty. They could k- No, there’s no _point _discussing thiss further. I’m not helping. Not with _that_.” 

That has Asmodeus’ head snapping towards him, a quiet rage flaring in his eyes. “_Fraternizing_? Is that what you’ve been calling this?” Perhaps it’s unfair of him, to be upset by that, but there’s a pain blooming somewhere in his chest at the thought. It’s not- they’re _not_, but he won’t stand to be insulted by some- some _angel_. “Well, I do have plenty of people to _fraternize _with, Raphael,” he spits, reminding him of just where they stand, if Raphael’s going to do the same. 

“Of _course _you do! You’re a _demon_!” The words hit him, leaving him feeling a bit wrongfooted and out of sorts. They sting more than they should. After all these years, things really haven’t changed between them at all. Raphael is still the same angel that had snatched Cain away from him for what he is, still unable to trust him in any way that really _counts_. 

“Well, the feeling is mutual, then. Obviously.” And with that, he gives Raphael one last nasty look that would have any lesser being quaking in their boots, and stalks away. 

“..._Obviously_,” he hears Raphael mock, but he doesn’t turn to look back. 

If that’s the way it’s going to be, then so be it. 

* * *

1 At some point the Catholics had gotten it into their heads that there were Seven Sins greater than any other, and that there were demons ruling those seven sins like kings. Or, well, Princes. This belief caused an entire flood of promotions and rearranged Hell’s infrastructure quite effectively. [ return to text ] 

2 Poland had done quite well for itself during the plague, mostly through a strict policy of burning anyone who so much as sneezed alive. It was a bad time for anyone with allergies. [ return to text ] 

3 It wasn’t so much a dragon as it was… some sort of leonine-reptilian creature, but really, who’s going to argue against him? [ return to text ] 

4 It was treason and murder for a lesser demon to, say, kill a Duke. It was nothing more than business for a Prince to kill a Prince. Not a week goes by without a coup, for some of their number. [ return to text ] 

5 Michael told Raphael, and Beelzebub told Michael. Her newly-formed ‘backchannels’ allowed her to talk to her girlfriend about nearly everything, and her girlfriend was sure to fill her in on all the things irritating zir that day - not the least of these being Asmodeus stepping on zir toes to gain zir Master’s favor with all this plague nonsense. Michael was rather sick of hearing about it, actually. [ return to text ] 

6 That may be somewhat due to Raphael’s influence. Angel of Music and all that. Adam and Eve and their sprog had grown bored with the living to survive situation and he’d rather thought teaching them to sing would lift their spirits magnificently. He’d been right, although Adam really couldn’t carry a tune. [ return to text ] 

7 At least in the Western world. The rest was thriving quite wonderfully and if it weren’t for the sheer chaos of the West needing direct attention, Raphael and Asmodeus might’ve had an excellent experience with the Middle Ages. [ return to text ] 

8 As it tends to be in these circles these days, his first reassurance is that no, he’s not _that_ Raphael. In fact, he feels rather irritated by the painter of the same name and uncanny resemblance. He’d been _especially_ annoyed when Asmodeus started talking about him with that gleam his eye. [ return to text ] 

9 Despite its deceptively innocent name, the Spanish Tickler was a rather successful means of torture during the time. We’re going to leave it to the curious reader to look this up for themselves. [ return to text ] 

10 This is something he’ll feel quite terrible about, once it comes out that you’re not supposed to feed them bread. [ return to text ] 

11 In Raphael’s defense, he hadn’t created ducks. That had been Michael’s doing and he wasn’t expected to know much about them. [ return to text ] 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all in EXCITING personal news we're now BOYFRIENDS. we're DATING. this stupid fic got us together so like thank you all for being a part of our journey fjadjasdf
> 
> we're totally open to fanart & edits & such, just @ us on tumblr (monsternobility & raphhaels) or use the tag #every wandering bark
> 
> in the last part, modi's looking like a slightly more victorian miles maitland with yknow, silver hair. up until now he's been like a more feral, beardy michael sheen with a pitstop in rome to look like his role as nero. he can mess w/his age presentation it's fine. 
> 
> let us know what you think!!! we love this chapter specifically for the raph/leo content and we hope you guys liked it too. we've been going absolutely hogwild about them in the dms for a while now lol. neilman may not have intended this when he made crowley have a sketch of the mona lisa but boy is that what we went with.


	5. in which asmodeus parties his sadness away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so first off- the posting schedule is going to change a bit, unfortunately. we've both been so busy with school that our writing has slowed down considerably. we're still making headway on it but not nearly as fast as we thought we'd be able to. so instead of once every two weeks, we're going to publish once a month, though still on a monday. so the next posting date is **november 11, 2019**. this is is an effort to give us some more time to catch up and get this thing written completely so we don't have to go on a hiatus from publishing.
> 
> secondly, amiel (@bxyhoodbravery) was too busy to beta this chapter but we lov u <3 send him good vibes!
> 
> this chapter's art is right [here](https://thornscrowned.tumblr.com/post/188222959855/devils-bridge-a-fun-little-digital-painting-i?is_highlighted_post=1)! thornscrowned on tumblr/fishycorvid on ao3 has been nice enough to make us fanart for every chapter and we've decided to add them into the fic itself. go give her some love <3
> 
> **edit 1/13/20:** so it's come to our attention (we genuinely had no idea when writing this we SWEAR) that oscar wilde is like actually a super shitty horrible dude (he was a pedophile) but for the sake of honesty we're keeping the chapter as is. however, if he'd known asmodeus wouldn't have been friends with him. we don't condone anything about wilde. 
> 
> **tws for this chapter:** drug use & some violence. 
> 
> for drug use: skip from "-Somewhere, Presumably London or Perhaps San Francisco, Who’s to Say? ~1870s AD-" to "-London, England, 1892 AD-"
> 
> for violence: skip from "In some number of years Raphael will catch a b-class R-rated slasher flick on television" to "-The United States, 1912-1918 AD-"
> 
> for a more detailed description of the warnings & a summary of anything missed, see the end notes.

**-Soho, 1862 AD-**

Immediately after their debacle in the park, Asmodeus resolves to get _every bit_ as drunk as his corporation can possibly manage - which is, as it turns out, incredibly drunk. 

_Fraternizing_. Well, he _never_. If Raphael wants to see a demon _fraternizing_ so badly, Asmodeus will _not _disappoint. He does, after all, have _plenty_ of people to associate with that aren’t _stuffy angels_. He locks himself into his bookshop for a day or two (and then a week, and then two weeks), expecting to be called upon at their usual date; and when it becomes apparent the angel isn’t going to make an appearance for him to spitefully ignore, he decides to get up and find himself something to _do_. 

But as more weeks and months and _years _pass he wonders if, perhaps, he may have misjudged his angel’s level of upset, just slightly. It’s fine. It’s not as though they haven’t gone this long without seeing each other before; though, granted, it had been... quite some time since those days. The fight wasn’t even that _bad,_ it was little more than a _squabble, _all things considered_._ Raphael is being childish. He is being absurd - cruel, even, to deny him this. How many times has Asmodeus helped him with something, some menial chore or blessing, without expecting so much as a _word _of reward? How many times have they lain together? When is the last time Asmodeus even lied to him? Are they not _friends?_

They aren’t, of course, but things would be so much easier if the angel thought as much. 

If Raphael wants to be so _uppity_, then _fine_. He’ll come crawling back eventually. He always does after these fights. And Asmodeus will get what he wants, as _he _always does - all he has to do is be _patient_. 

There are plenty of people other than him to_ fraternize _with, after all. 

* * *

**-London, England, 1862 AD-**

The first thing Raphael does after he leaves St. James Park is _sleep_. Over the millennia, it’s a human habit he’s taken up with much enthusiasm, though it’s not with any sense of joy that he does it now. 

He’s still muttering quite angrily to himself when he arrives back at the flat he’d bought some decades ago as a more permanent lodging. It’s relatively modern for the time- though terribly bare, as though it’s barely lived in when in fact he stays there most days. As he makes his way back to his room, he strips off his jacket before perching on the edge of his bed. 

“_Plenty of people to fraternize with_-” he repeats in a mocking falsetto, yanking off one of his boots. “Shoving my face in it like he does, how was I ‘sposed to _miss _that? I’m not stupid, you know, I know who he is- a demon! A bloody _demon _and he wants me to get- arrogant bastard, that’s what he is.” He yanks off his other boot before starting on the rest of his clothes, grumbling to himself all the while. He knows there’s no one around to hear it and that it serves no purpose, but it feels _good _to get it out. 

Still, when he’s left in his underclothes and without any words left to say on the matter, he just feels… _tired_. Achingly so. He runs a hand over his face, letting out a small huff of breath. His eyes sting, but he resolutely ignores it. They always bounce back from their fights. He’s sure Asmodeus will come to see how utterly and completely ridiculous his request was and they’ll be back to normal like nothing had ever happened. Maybe Raphael can apologize, though he knows Asmodeus won’t. But the entire thing has left him drained, a steady ache in his chest and a pounding headache behind his eyes. 

When he curls up under his blankets, he plans to get a good night’s sleep and wake up feeling refreshed in the morning. According to the humans, those eight hours are optimal. 

He certainly doesn’t mean to sleep for two weeks. 

* * *

**-Heaven, ∞-**

Raphael hasn’t been to Heaven since… well, the Middle Ages. He’d been rather sore about the plague situation, you see, and afterwards had been the entire Inquisition debacle that had left a sour taste in his mouth and little desire to return home. Like a university student staying at school through the holidays, he’d sent back his reports with little fanfare and made his excuses for why he _simply couldn’t make it this time, sorry_. It’s not like he’s left things up in the air, either. Diligence has been, not to put too fine a point, very _diligent _about making sure things are taken care of while he’s been gone. 

But in the months since he’s split off from Asmodeus, he’s found himself with little to do. There’s the occasional miracle, but Heaven has gotten much more subtle about their presence among humans since those good ol’ days of fire and brimstone. Without his Adversary to thwart _or_ assist, depending on the mood, there’s not much that requires his attention. He’s never been beholden to dreary daily reports. He’s only ever having to explain the Big Ones, and lately those have been few and far between. He could, for the sake of argument, be off having a torrid affair with a demon and they’d never be the wiser. 

The point remains that he’s _bored_. 

And so, rather without his permission, his feet have carried him to the opulent building currently serving as both an entrance to Heaven and Hell. In time, it will be torn down and rebuilt as a towering highrise made of glass, but for the moment it’s made of stone columns and carries the air of the aristocratic- that is to say, it’s an entirely _pretentious _establishment. The last time he’d been, the entrance had been in a damned castle. How times change yet manage to stay exactly the same. 

As he pushes the heavy door open, he spares a nod for the man leaving the way Raphael came. There’s human business going on here as well, though they’ll all find themselves strangely uncompelled to follow the stairs to the top floor. As for Hell, he doesn’t think they could manage it even if they tried. They’ve always done well to keep themselves unreachable by human standards, at least while they’re still among the living. 

With a shuddering breath, he starts his way up the stairs. 

* * *

In Raphael’s absence, Heaven has become an entirely new place. Green fields have been replaced by towering buildings, flowing rivers with bureaucracy. He can still see mountains in the distance, but he’s sure no one’s set foot on those distant peaks in a millennia or two. Everything feels stifled, cold, evoking the same sort of emotion as the phrase _tan khakis_. As he looks out the window of the main building, he can’t help but feel he’s lost something a long time ago and had no idea it’d been gone at all until he came face to face with its absence. 

The room he’s in is empty. Although he’s never been here, he knows the layout like the back of his hand already and had chosen a place he’s sure he won’t be bothered. With a sharp pang, he realizes he has absolutely no idea what his siblings are up to these days. He’s not even sure he can _feel _Michael’s aura. Gabriel and Uriel are around, somewhere, but what they’re doing, he really couldn’t tell you. He wonders if anyone’s even noticed he’s _home_. There had been a time when all they had was each other. 

He’d really rather not be noticed, at least for now - some mixture of shame and anxiety curling in his gut. What would be said, if they saw him? Standing here, lost, like a stranger in his own home. Raphael sighs, deciding he’s being too maudlin. He came here to get his wits about him, after all, not stare out windows- something he could do perfectly well from his flat in Mayfair. What he _needs _to do is find his Virtues. How long has it been since he’s seen them, anyways? Too long, he’s sure. 

Probably. Frankly, he feels terribly aimless, here. Maybe this hadn’t been such a bright idea after all. 

His feet follow a path he used to know like he knows his own assigned corporation; a left here, a right there, an unending staircase. He never takes the elevator, when he can avoid it. No matter how much the head building has changed, he knows _this_. Not head office, he’d really rather not deal with his siblings or the Metatron, but just a few floors down from it - his floor, with _his_ office. His Virtues’ workplace. The Miracles Department. 

Or at least, it used to be. When he makes it in, the entire floor has been cleared out and abandoned. A fine layer of celestial dust blankets abandoned desks and typowriters [1], and Raphael swears he catches a dustbunny rolling its way into a corner. A single, solitary teacup rests on a meeting table. 

He’s not alone. An angel comes into sight, ineffectively and quite dispassionately sweeping at the gilded cobwebs. He clears his throat, raises his hand in a vague sort of greeting when they squint up at him. 

“Er, ‘scuse me,” Raphael says uneasily. “Sorry, didn’t there used to be a miracle department here? Yeah- can’t have made a wrong turn-” He turns to look around with a small frown, like if he looks hard enough he’ll see Patience sitting at their desk, waving him over to ask his opinion on some situation they’ve been assigned at ground floor. 

The angel blinks at him, leaning on their push broom. From the looks of it, they’re little more than janitorial staff. “The Department of Miracles?” They scratch their chin. “Been a while since that’s been located here.” 

“They _moved it_?” 

“Sure. Y’know how it is- head office doesn’t want too much goin’ on down there, these days. Not after that unfortunate business with Her son, an’ all. Think they cut funding. Yeah, those Virtues were kinda scrambled after that, from what I heard. Left the Powers and Dominions of the Second Triad floundering, hopin’ they weren’t next.” 

Raphael is still trying to catch up with the fact that they _moved his office_. _His _office. “Wh- _cut funding_? We don’t even_ need _funding. We’re _angels_.” 

The broom angel shrugs. “Tell that t’the Archangels, I guess. ‘M just a janitor, s’not my business. Think they’re located…” Their face screws up in concentration. “316 John Street? Or somewhere ‘round there, anyways.” 

Raphael squints at them, utterly confounded. He passes his hand down his face tiredly, rubbing at his chin, before throwing his hands down by his sides and spinning away. “Great. Cool. _Fantastic_. That’s just - bloody fine, I guess.” 

Across from him, the angel shrugs again and gets back to sweeping. “Sorry I can’t help more, sir. May want t’try poppin’ back up here more often, eh?” 

They set off whistling a jaunty rendition of _A Mighty Fortress is Our God_, leaving Raphael alone. 

“Shit,” he says, in the silence. 

* * *

316 John Street is, despite appearances, _quite _the downgrade. His nose wrinkles as he takes in the building. 

Truly, in all things Heaven is flawless and perfect - but some buildings are _older_ than others, to be put delicately. This one gives off the feeling that were it on earth it’d still have asbestos and black mold growing in the attic. Maybe a dead rat in the walls here or there. There’s a sign posted out front that reads, ‘Department of Miracles’, though it’s clearly a poorly made stand-in until someone gets around to making the official thing. Raphael feels a wave of annoyance - no one had even bothered to _tell _him - quickly replaced by _guilt_. 

Should he knock? It’s his department, after all, but it feels _rude_. He didn’t have a hand in picking the space, or really much at all. In avoiding his siblings, he’s been horribly negligent towards the Virtues. He winces. Yeah, knocking’s probably his best bet. 

With a sigh, he musters up the courage and raises his fist to the door. 

He doesn’t even know who to hope for. He’s not sure he could withstand Diligence’s steady gaze or Chastity’s judgment. Maybe Kindness, but he’d be so _nice _it’d make him feel even guiltier. 

The door creaks with disuse as it’s opened, and a metallic burnt gold eye peers around the edge - before flinging the door open with a squeal and Raphael finds his arms full of Virtue Humility. He stumbles back in surprise with a wheeze, getting a mouthful of their tight red curls instead of the apologies he’d meant to give. 

He sputters, carefully extricating himself from their grasp. They haven’t changed in the slightest. “Wh - h- hi, _hi_, Humility, _hello_-” 

They’re already chattering at him but he can’t pay them any attention, because already his others are filtering out from the still-open door, touching him, shoving him, ushering him inside. He can barely get a word in edgewise past the Virtues’ clamoring to be heard. Before long they have him seated, all seven of them gathering around him expectantly like students to their teacher. 

Silence. 

“Er,” Raphael says. Charity scoots forward more, and Raphael rubs the back of his neck. 

It’s up to Chastity to break the silence. “Well,” she says. 

Raphael flinches and her stern face immediately softens. It’s youthful and fine - the sort of face quick to a sisterly annoyance and pinched lips. 

“Been a while, I think,” he offers. “See you’ve, uh. Redecorated.” It’s a kind word to use for a not terribly kind interior. He’s not sure that he likes it. 

“Roughly 1,866 years,” Diligence responds, diligently. “And... not by choice.” 

“Y- yeah. Yep. S’pose that’s-” he pauses, grimaces into the distance, “-my doing. Yeah.” He decides it’s probably best not to mention that he _had _been to visit since the Crucifixion, but just… not to see _them_. He’d been busy with other things and hadn’t exactly _meant _to stay away so long. 

Kindness pokes his bald head up from the back, blatantly addressing the elephant in the room they were all ignoring. “S’cool, you know? It’s not_ your_ fault we got downsized. And you’re here now, anyways, so whatever.” 

Always non-judgemental, that one. Just like he’d thought, Kindness’ forgiving nature instantly makes him feel like the world’s worst father. Not that he’s a father. Or even that they’re on the world, for that matter. 

Raphael clears his throat, dropping his gaze as he shifts. “C’mon, let’s hear it then. I want to know what’s been happening.” He shoots the group a crooked smile, trying to set things back on track. Like they’d been, back in the old days before the entire mess with the War. 

With a few stops and awkward beginnings, they do manage to start _talking_. And once they do, they start to fall back into their old routine. It’s been so long since Raphael has had this sort of company, but he realizes it’s dulling the ache in his chest. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to stay a while. Catch up. He doesn’t have many people in his life, these days. 

It’s not like he and his Virtues have any real_ job_, anymore [2]. Still, it might be nice. He’s been on earth for nearing on six thousand years, since the very beginning. He could use a break. 

* * *

He stays at his desk for a month of earth’s time, maybe two, before he tires of it. Even with the leaky roof, centuries of backlogged paperwork, and sheer _boredom _aside, he just doesn’t understand how his siblings can _stand_ this sort of thing - how they can stand not being… _down_ there. Out there. _Doing things_. Maybe Raphael really has gone native, after all. 

When Temperance finds him, he’s packing up what little things he has in his new-old desk. 

She looks the most like him, out of them all; same mane of loose curls, same nose, same strong jaw and willowy frame. Were they human, they could be mistaken for siblings. Her expression is as mild as always, though there are notes of steel in her eyes. He rather feels like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, pinned as he is to squirm guiltily under her stare. 

“Are you leaving us again, Raphael?” 

He winces. At least it hadn’t been Chastity who found him. He isn’t sure he could withstand her judgment. 

“I am,” he answers truthfully, then stumbles into his next words without giving her a chance to speak. “But- not forever, er, just for... A while. Got some stuff to handle on the ground floor. Stuff. Things.” He scrambles at the rolling quills on his desk, shoving away wax seal presses and papers. Temperance stills his hands with her own. 

“Raphael,” she says, so gently. He looks up at her, meeting those sunshine-gold eyes. She’s always been the calmest of them. “You don’t have to stay if you do not want to. We won’t keep you.” 

“S’not that I don’t- _want_ to,” he confesses, looking away. He swallows. “S’just. You know.” 

“I do.” She releases his hands with a soft sigh. 

It’s not the same, Heaven, and it hasn’t been for quite some time. All of them know it and yet it’s left to _quiet implications_ and _traded glances_. It’s not something they can speak aloud, not freely, but he can see that same knowledge in her gaze. 

Temperance tilts her head and a waterfall of flame tumbles off of her shrugging shoulder. 

“Just don’t - don’t leave us forever again. Please. You must strive for-” 

“-a balance,” he finishes for her, already smiling. “Yeah. I remember.” 

He remembers. His Virtues had always been the best of him, after all. 

* * *

None of his siblings come to see him before he leaves, not even once. Not a one. Not even _Sandalphon_, who he knows to have taken his place. 

_Fucking _Sandalphon. His own personal_ replacement_, standing in his space when the Archangels line up. 

Maybe it’s best Sandalphon doesn’t come to see him after all. 

* * *

**-London, England 1862-1908 AD-**

At least in Heaven, Raphael had his Virtues to keep him company. Back on earth, it comes back to him all too quickly how _alone_ he is without - _him_. 

There’s no point sitting at the park feeding the ducks, no point going out to dinner alone, no point in lazy afternoons spent doing nothing but lounging in a comfortable reading chair while someone else sits across from him sipping their tea. He even misses traveling around the world performing _temptations_, which isn’t something he ever expected to mourn. 

Sometimes he’ll pass by Asmodeus’ bookshop on his way somewhere and every time he fails to stop himself from glancing inside the shop window. Each time, without fail, Asmodeus is nowhere to be seen. Even from here, he can see the thin layer of dust gathering on the books. It makes him uneasy, but it’s not really his place to question anymore. Right now. They’ll- they’ll see each other again, at some point, just… not_ right now._ Not yet. 

He hears rumors of someone that can only be Asmodeus, from time to time, and those are the worst. He tries not to make it a habit to listen to idle gossip, but it’s hard not to when some part of him is looking for reassurance that the demon is _alright_. More than, by the sound of it. It’s not something he tries to dwell on for long. 

For a while, he tries to get used to the city on his own. Go places he hadn’t gone before, meet new people, see an assortment of plays and operas. It’s a wide world, after all, and he hasn’t always been enjoying it by a demon’s side; but truthfully, he finds it all a bit empty without someone to share it with. He’ll find himself turning to whisper jokes during a performance and find the space next to him occupied by a rather unimpressed human or, more often, no one at all. 

He needs something to do. Something to keep him _busy_. Heaven was a dud already, and London is just… it lacks appeal when one suffers through it alone. 

Come to think of it, it’s been quite a while since he looked into the medical advancements mankind made. Last he remembers, lizard blood and dead mice were still popular topical treatments. 

It doesn’t take much to miracle the documents he needs into place. He knows, vaguely, what they’ll be looking for: a preliminary education, for one, and an aptitude for science, as well as the very vague ‘knowledge of a good deal of everything’ and ‘having done well in his studies.’ 

Raphael is an Archangel, he figures he knows just about enough of everything. And as for studies… Well. He’d certainly find out. The sciences are easy enough. When one has wings, one learns the laws of physics _fairly quickly_. Biology would be no challenge; he’d created plenty of living creatures, hand-designed them from the ground up. Literally, from the ground up. And what is chemistry if not crafting stars? 

He doesn’t even need to necessarily choose an area to go into - he has all the time in the world, after all. He decides to begin in London. It’s already his ‘home base,’ as it were. It’s as good a place to start as any, and when one can _create_ the things he needs to apply he needn’t worry about being rejected. 

Suppose that’s cheating, in a way. Oh well. Not like anyone important will know. 

It’s five years later that he graduates with honors and decides that _yes, this is exactly what I want to do for the time being._ Why stop at licensed physician? He fancies he’d also make a perfectly decent surgeon and apothecary. He knows typically a man is not allowed to be _all three,_ but he’s certainly no man. He might as well cover his bases. Never mind that the humans have some very… _interesting _ideas regarding certain substances and their uses as medicine. What’s important was that he passes his classes, and that _he knows better._

He goes on to Oxford and Cambridge, then Victoria and Durham. He permits himself an extended stay in Scotland to take some of the courses offered by Edinburgh and St. Andrew’s. Money is no object, when you’re a creature not of this world. 

If Heaven doesn’t want him performing major miracles, then fine. Raphael will find other ways to heal. 

And all the while, the ache in his chest for his demon only sharpens. 

As if sensing this, of course, _of course_, towards the end of his stint as a_ student,_ his Virtues find him. 

* * *

“Is this going to become a thing?” he asks, muffled against hair almost as red as his own. 

“Yes,” says Charity, immediately, answering for all seven of them. [3]

“We wish to be with you,” Patience supplies in his ear, their chin on his shoulder. Chastity takes his books in her arms, squinting at the covers, and Raphael offers a helpless little laugh. 

“Well, that’s, that’s nice and all- how’d you even get past-” No, on second thought, he doesn’t want to know. He can’t help the fond smile pulling at his lips. He gestures for his little troupe to stand further towards the wall, so others can move past them easier. “But- and it’s not that I don’t want you here- the school isn’t, er, well. It’s not really ‘sposed to be for the public. So- we can go someplace else when I’m done here, but-” 

“Oh, we know,” interrupts Diligence, cheekily. 

“We’ve _enrolled_.” 

* * *

**-Somewhere, Presumably London or Perhaps San Francisco, Who’s to Say? ~1870s AD-**

The next decades are a flurry of activity for Asmodeus, delving into whichever walk of life strikes his fancy for the time being. As a demon, and indeed as the _Prince of Lust_, he has a general sense of where the _fun _is to be had in any city he visits, seeking it out like a moth to flame. 

To say he spends his and Raphael’s time apart _partying_ is both crude and inaccurate. He spends that time _working,_ thank you very much, and working _tirelessly._

It just happens that for Asmodeus, _work_ and _play_ are nearly indistinguishable entities. 

At present, he is _working_ in the lap of a gorgeous ginger whose name is… Thomas? Timothy? A _T_ name, of some kind. Or perhaps he’s a Michael. Frankly, he can’t be assed to remember the young man’s name. It’s not like he’ll be sticking around. He tosses his head back, curls wild and sweat-slicked to his forehead, _euphoric_ when Thomas-or-Timothy-or-possibly-Michael finishes. The euphoria might be, in part, due to the opium coursing through his system. 

In the future, a dear friend of his will write something along the lines of opium dens being ‘where the memory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new’, and Asmodeus will grin and ask just _where _he’d gotten his hands on all his closest-kept secrets. How accurate the sentiment would be. He is, after all, ‘buying oblivion.’ 

It’s important to have a good wealth of experience with just what substances humanity is getting into, of course. Helps with his line of work. 

He rolls, settling his head into the pillow of Maybe-Probably-Michael’s lap. “Well, that was fun, wasn’t it, Michael?” 

Above him, the young man sways in mild bafflement. “My name is James?” 

“Is it? Hm.” Asmodeus twists a lock of orange hair between his fingers, Apparently-James’ taste still heavy on his tongue. “You look like a Michael.” [4]

James-Not-Michael laughs, a furtive giggle, and reaches for the pipe again. Asmodeus watches him lazily, holding out his hand when it seems James has taken his fill. He closes his eyes, letting the numbing sensation travel down his limbs with a sigh. Buying oblivion, indeed. 

It’s perhaps a few minutes or hours later when he feels James shift beneath him. He opens his eyes, James’ voice a distant sort of echo as his face lights up. “I didn’t expect to see you here-” he’s exclaiming, dislodging Asmodeus as he stands. Asmodeus jolts, catching himself on the pile of pillows they’d been lounging on with a scowl. 

He watches as James disappears with his friend and huffs. _Rude_. The young man hadn’t even bothered to return the favor. He falls back against the pillows again. Fine, then. He’ll simply enjoy the high by himself, watching the action around him with a lackadaisical sort of interest. 

If he were to wax poetic, he might find himself catching glimpses of Raphael in the humans around him. Red locks here, a lithe frame there. But it’s impossible. None of them can compare, in the most literal sense. What human could possibly capture that shade of gold in their eyes? No, he can’t find him in any of them, and he’s not certain if he should be glad of it or not. 

It’s only in these moments, half-aware and mind lost in the fog of pleasure, that he allows himself to think about him at all. 

* * *

**-London, England, 1892 AD- **

Asmodeus has rather been making a name for himself among certain literary circles in London, a task he’s more than happy to take up. He does ever love the turbulent sort of lifestyle that the _starving artist _presents - however much he and his peers are neither starving nor, in his particular case, an artist. It is simply the _principle of the thing_. Being, himself, a collector and purveyor of _interesting books_, a ‘fan of the trade’ as it were, he often finds himself with the most interesting company. When he’s open, that is. 

He always finds a reason to be open for Oscar. 

They had been introduced by a mutual acquaintance that Asmodeus had met some time ago during his stint in the dens - an indulgence he still occasionally indulges in, probably far too often to be considered ‘occasionally.’ His_ habit _doesn’t really ever quite nip itself in the bud - after all, as a demon he needn’t_ truly_ worry about the possibility of addiction or overdose. And he meets so many_ interesting people_ while there who tell him all manner of _interesting things_. 

On one particular evening, he’d been invited along by said mutual acquaintance [5] to a certain soiree involving no small amount of the debauchery those of the higher class enjoyed. As a simple bookseller, Asmodeus doesn’t often get invited to these kinds of things. 

Though that doesn’t mean he can’t find his way in, anyways. This party had been no exception. 

The dress code was rather clear: he was to be wearing a _costume_. It was nothing near the true opulence of actual masquerades he’d attended in his time, but he did have a delicate mask he’d picked for the occasion. Perhaps a bit on the nose, it was a gilded black and gold lion, elegantly made and befitting the theme quite nicely, if he did say so himself. 

He’d been milling about, whispering filthy temptations into various minds. He never even had to follow through, merely plant the idea and watch them fall in with each other. He’d been on his- what, fourth? Fifth?- flute of champagne, when his friend had tugged him away by his elbow. 

“Alexander, I’d like to introduce you to my good friend, Oscar,” he’d said, quite cheerily, and it took Asmodeus a moment to remember that he’d started using an alias as of late. Asmodeus wasn’t exactly a common name, and certainly not a subtle one. 

He’d turned and found himself face to face with one of the most gifted writers of the time holding his hand out towards him. His lips stretched into a grin, taking Oscar’s offered hand and leaning into him rather suggestively. “Oh, I don’t think this one needs any introduction at all. Aren’t you supposed to be wearing a mask?” 

“I seemed to have lost mine,” came the answer, an amused but hesitant smile curling on his lips. 

They’d hit it off immediately, both of them having a certain love for the hedonistic and all the fun to be had out of life, though Asmodeus tends to live the philosophy more than Oscar. No, Oscar merely likes to observe, with the sort of air of a man that wishes he could join in without realizing he most certainly _can_. He’d written a novel all about that, a few years back. The man others see him as (a cowardly man who talks a great deal without living up to it), the man he wishes himself to be (young and free to indulge his vices), and the man he is (kind and, if one were to be unkind, perhaps a bit of a pushover). Asmodeus takes it upon himself to show him that everyone has a bit of all three. 

Neither of them are under any pretenses. They’re friends. _Good _friends, at that. They each have a number of lovers. Oscar even has a wife, though Asmodeus can’t feel anything but pity about that particular situation. Sometimes they’ll even lay together and lament about _that _one. Bosie with his blasted gold curls and temper, Raphael and his cowardice. 

It’s the closest thing to genuine companionship Asmodeus has had, perhaps in his entire life. 

Asmodeus does truly love being on his arm, sitting in on his writing sessions - hosting a few at his own bookshop, even, which he has willingly opened for _no one_ before,_ including_ Raphael. Asmodeus had already been a fan of the man’s work, obviously, having loved _Dorian Gray_. It was only the next logical step to invite him in. 

Not to tell him the truth, no, never that. But to share his collection with what is possibly the only other mortal who could ever truly appreciate it -_ that _is something special all on its own. Of course the man would immediately single out the works that _he himself wrote_. 

“Ah,” Asmodeus says, worrying at his clasped hands when he finds him. “I should have known you’d find my- er. These.” 

He is by no means bashful, just on principle, but it can be terribly embarrassing when the man you’ve rather been a fan of and are now in some kind of _casual relationship_ with finds your collection of his - thus far - completed works. 

“It’s not as though they were hidden,” Wilde responds easily, gently slipping a novel back into its proper place. “Alexander, it’s flattering. Truly.” 

Asmodeus tips his head back in an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, of course you think so, you horrid thing. You’re just enjoying my mortification.” 

That earns him one of those mild smiles, barely more than the slightest upturn to his mouth. 

It wouldn’t be until much later, roughly eight years or so, that in a fit of sudden anguish he’d pick up his old copy of _The Happy Prince and Other Tales_ and find it - and every other Wilde in his collection - hand-signed to _his dearest friend, Alexander Deus_. 

They, along with his books of prophecy, remain some of his most prized possessions to this day. 

* * *

**-The Western Front, 1914-1918 AD-**

Two years in, the Virtues realize that they’d much rather be practicing nursing. As good luck would have it, a university in the United States is offering the very first bachelor’s degree in the field. Like any supportive parental figure, Raphael follows. Really, it should say something of his fondness for them that he goes to _America_, of all the awful places in the world. It’s with no small amount of griping, though. 

As _bad _luck would have it, a war breaks out right as they’re set to graduate. 

Europe realizes that it hasn’t had a war since the last war it had, so it starts a new one. It’s said to be a _Great War_. The _Greatest_. What kind of angels would they be if they avoid it now? Raphael had done that once and the guilt of it still haunts him every now and again. It’s not something he wants to repeat, let alone have the Virtues feel in any way the way he had during the Spanish Inquisition. 

In their short time on earth, it’s their first glimpse into how much humanity needs their help. 

* * *

In some number of years Raphael will catch a b-class R-rated slasher flick on television, some silly thing with comical spurts of blood and melodramatic acting. He’ll think to himself, well, that’s _terribly_ inaccurate, no mortal would survive long enough to scream with that much blood loss, and that’s not at all the way gore would spray and paint the walls and face of the killer. Well, the _killer_ part he wouldn’t know much about, but he can hazard a healthy guess based on personal experience. 

By the time those types of films roll around, he won’t have the stomach for them. He’d seen those sorts of things first-hand, after all. 

Raphael utters a string of curses so foul it should by rights cause his Fall, mopping at his brow to catch sweat and mostly only succeeding at smearing blood across his face. Beneath him, the man whose leg he is part-way sawed through has long passed out. There is blood, everywhere - on his hands, arms, down his chest, in his shorn-short hair - in his _mouth_. Beside him, Patience grits their teeth and takes over sawing for him. They’ve learned well, and _quickly_ by necessity. If they mutter a quick miracle to stem the tide, he won’t be the one to say it. 

Around them there is nothing but the stench of blood and death, urine and feces and _disease_, again, always disease. The groans of those suffering in pain and the distant sounds of gunfire, gunfire, _gunfire_ day and night are what compose the lullaby rocking them to sleep. The birds don’t sing any more. He’s not sure he even remembers what they sound like. Already he has exhausted what little energy he has trying to _heal,_ to twist reality into something more pleasing, to hope against hope that _someone_ may make it out of this tent alive at the end of this day. He cannot miracle every case into working order and each weighs on his heart like cinderblocks. 

In times like these, Raphael disappears to a distant corner of his mind while his hands still desperately work to save precious life. This time, he thinks of a leonine smile and soft, steady hands. It’s been over half a century since he’s seen Asmodeus and he wonders where he’s been in all this. He knows better than to think he’s responsible for any of it, but he hopes he hasn’t been caught up in the crossfire. Most likely, he’s still running his little bookshop, perfectly safe and sound. 

As he continues to work, he loses himself in that image. Imagining what the demon might be doing. Closing up, probably, reshelving books that obnoxious customers had deigned to take down. There might be a cooling cup of tea sat on one of the tables, forgotten in the hours of the day. Later, he’d be settled into that plush chair worn in from centuries of use, book in his lap, ankles delicately crossed and head held in hand as he reads; maybe, if he’s feeling up to it, he might even go to dinner by himself. He’s never been embarrassed by those sorts of things. 

He’s dragged from this reverie by shouting accompanied by Charity’s insistent tug at his arm. “Raphael,” he says, hushed voice urgent. “We’ve been calling- there’s another group coming in that just got gassed, everyone else is busy, we need _you_.” 

“_Fuck_,” he spits, spinning on his heel to shed his contaminated scrubs. “Patience, can you-” 

“I’ve already got him handled,” they respond. “Go.” 

* * *

**-The United States, 1912-1918 AD-**

Shortly after Wilde’s passing, Asmodeus finds himself drawn elsewhere. London has simply lost so much of its appeal in the wake of his little circle’s dissolution, and he’s grown bored of the games the men play at his discreet gentleman’s club. As he locks up his shop, he contemplates his options. 

He needs a change of pace, a change of scenery, something _new_. Somewhere he’ll stop thinking about that _accursed_ angel that plagues him continually despite his really rather copious efforts. And if that somewhere has to be_ the colonies_, then so be it. It’s a changing country - growing, industrializing, a well of potential that he wants to witness. 

America has very suddenly found itself a world power, and Asmodeus wants to see what it will do with this revelation. 

He has absolutely nothing to do with the Titanic’s failure, thank you very much. He is on it, however, and is _incredibly_ irritated that even threat of discorporation by hypothermia on an iceberg isn’t enough to grab Raphael’s Heavenly attention. 

By the time he actually makes it to America, he’s rather put out about the whole affair. Almost drowning does tend to have that effect on a person. His spirits are lifted considerably, however, when he realizes just how much potential there is for temptation in this “new” world [6]. He can get up to all sorts of trouble, here. 

And then a war breaks out. 

Terribly messy things, wars, and this one in particular. Ghastly. Britain to war with Germany, because Britain allied with Belgium and Belgium was trampled in Germany’s effort to get to France, because France was allied with Russia, and on and on it went just because some gentleman from Serbia or another shot the Archduke. Frankly, he cannot be bothered to keep it all straight. The important thing is that the nation he is at current moment dwelling in seems bound and determined to_ stay out of it _for the time being_,_ and he cannot fault them for it. He can only imagine the state Britain is in. He finds himself worrying, once again, for Raphael, who’s always managed to find himself in the middle of these things. Asmodeus has no doubt he’s found his way into this one, too. 

Perhaps worrying isn’t the right word. He knows that as an angel, a particularly powerful one at that, Raphael isn’t in any _real _danger. And a Prince of Hell doesn’t _worry_. He certainly doesn’t fuss at his nails and his clothes and his books, or pace, or _mutter_ to himself about just what Raphael could be doing at that present moment other than fighting in a war that _isn’t his_. 

It’s almost three years before America joins the fight, though not for the altruistic reasons that would be heard from history books in the future. Three years of Asmodeus not-worrying_, constantly_. 

In those three years, he’s drafted more than one letter in his less-than-sober states. They all start out differently and when he reads them in the morning, he feels a varying level of annoyance and disgust with himself. _Dear Raphael, I do hope you’re safe. Raphael, I hope you weren’t stupid enough to get involved in all this. My Dear, Was the fight really so bad? Darling _[7]_, I hope your discorporation is imminent. _

They all get crumpled up and promptly burst into flame. That is, until on one of those nights he evidently decides to go the full mile and stick the letter in an envelope with plenty of stamps and an address he knows by heart and into the mailbox. 

What’s written on it, he can barely remember in the morning. In fact, he very nearly forgets he’d sent it at all until one afternoon when he finds it back on his doorstep marked _return to sender. _Asmodeus very nearly drops it, as if it burns. 

He tries not to think too deeply about it. Raphael can take care of himself just fine. 

He tucks the unopened letter in his jacket pocket. One day, he might even bring himself to read it. 

* * *

Overall, in four years, roughly thirty-seven million people die, according to some estimations. Some of this is due to the war itself - the rest, the aftermath. 

A young woman with hair like blood and a smile like aflaming swordhums, and nods to herself approvingly as she reads the papers. She thinks she’s rather outdone herself, this time. Next time will be even _better._

* * *

**-Berlin, Germany, 1929- **

During their time apart they meet exactly once, in one of Berlin's finest parties in the tail end of the 1920's [8]. At the time, the city is known for its vibrant, thriving queer community and a vivid nightlife. It boasts the first gay village, the first gay magazine, flourishing clubs where one can dance ‘til the dawn. It’s only logical that they’re both drawn here, eventually. 

It’s one of those decades, the ones where Raphael finds herself in need of _change_. Her hair has grown out from the war, but even though she’s no longer in the military she still finds some amount of difficulty regrowing it to its former length. Could miracle it, really, but some things are best done the old-fashioned way. She lingers at the edges of the party she’s found herself at, having never been one for idle talk- still, the entire point of this is to try and loosen up some, so she picks up a glass of some fruity concoction and decides to talk to _someone_. Anyone, really. Anyone at all. 

For a while, she talks with a pleasant man from the area who has recently inherited his family’s watch business. He’s kind, and not unhandsome, but those are not traits she’s looking for. After him is a delightful young woman who Raphael counsels towards running away with her lover. Perhaps not her brightest moment, for the girl takes off immediately, leaving her alone. Wandering, weaving through the throng, she finds herself by the side of the grand piano used less for music and more for conversation piece. It’s easier, like this - settling at the fringe of society, enjoying the music and the rumble of conversation, feeling the ebb and pull of low-level emotion. There’s very little of virtue to be found here, tonight. 

But that’s alright, isn’t it? She’s not on the clock- this is a vacation. This is for fun. When was the last time she did something like this without Asmodeus? Had she ever? 

One saying the humans have coined that she is familiar with, if not particularly fond of, is _‘speak of the devil, and he shall appear.’ _It is, regrettably, often true of her life. As the crowd shifts like an ocean, parts like the Red Sea, she spots _him_. 

Of course. Of _fucking_ course. 

The demon is dressed in a white suit jacket, accented by a black vest and the most _ungodly _white tophat. It’s always been a good color on him, she’ll admit, but she feels a sort of annoyance at the fact that he still looks so- _so_. Even from here, she can see the blood red stain of his lips that reminds her of a certain ill-fated night in Rome. 

He’s gorgeous, and it makes her breath catch somewhere in her throat. She hates it. No matter how many years they spend apart, he’s still capable of making her knees go weak and her heart skip a beat in her chest merely by _existing_. Nothing can ever compare to the first time she’d seen him in the Garden again, but it’s not far off. 

It’s not fair at all, is it? She’d come here for a break, a distraction, something to take her mind off of everything, and now- well, she’d rather be anywhere but here. As she watches, he tips his head towards the pleasant creature on his arm, smiling wide, lips a bleeding gash that hide teeth sharp enough to kill. How he can turn an entire crowd to his bidding, she’ll never understand. He’s in his element, here, the star of the show, the center of attention, flitting here and there and wherever he desires, touching shoulders and arms as he passes. He tells a joke and they all laugh - they love him. They_ love him_, these humans, unaware that he’s the wolf cloaked in their wool, the very literal lion among the lambs. 

Then, as if sensing her very _breath_, his head turns- and he _sees _her. 

Her heart stops. 

There is no flare of recognition in those cat’s eyes, no anger or even resentment - if anything, that bloody smile stretches even _wider _and he tips his head back as if in challenge. As if daring her to hold his gaze. Raphael almost stumbles, clinging to the edge of the piano with a white-knuckled grip. The man beside her catches her arm and asks if she’s perhaps had too much to drink. She’s too busy watching the demon’s fluid movements to respond, taking her arm from the man’s grasp to leave him. She needs to be- elsewhere. Right now. Immediately. 

Behind her, where she is definitely _not _watching, Asmodeus pushes off from the wall and as he moves, the crowd shifts around him like a school of fish from a shark. 

Raphael’s heart is a contradiction. She wants to flee- wants to be as far away from him as she can possibly get. All this time and distance still hasn’t been enough. But the larger part of her, the one that keeps her standing still, _wants_. Want is a human need, a human desire - angels do not _want_. Not good ones, anyways. 

There is a soft hand on her waist, the weight of which is as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. Her breath stutters and stops and, in that moment, she_ yearns_. 

He touches her the same as any other stranger at this party, but as she shifts his hand flexes against her side and she cannot suppress the resulting shiver. He smirks, his eyes famelicose, and just as quickly - there and gone - he disappears again. 

Raphael releases a shuddery breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, and finishes her drink in one tip of the glass. 

As the night ticks by they continue to circle each other wordlessly. There are less and less people between them and it’s almost a game, of sorts, though not one she can figure the rules of. Asmodeus always did love a game, a gamble, calculating the odds so that he’d end out on top. It’s been such a long time since they last danced. They come together and then part, like celestial bodies, created together and drifting away - which is not an entirely inaccurate description, when you get right down to it. A touch here, a laugh there; she can hear his voice, feel the heat of him against her back when he reaches past. 

Smug,_ teasing_ bastard. Two can play his game. 

Raphael tosses her head back gaily, twirling a lock of short hair around her finger as she smiles at a woman nearby- Angelica, she thinks she recalls her name being. She’s never had much interest in women, but truly this isn’t anything more than being _friendly_. She leans over a table, fabric of her gown draped elegantly to accentuate the sharp angle of her shoulders, the curve of her calves, the cinch of her waist. Across the room, Asmodeus looks like he’s swallowed a lemon, lips pursed and eyes flaring before his gaze shifts into something more resolute. That’s fine. He set the rules of this match, she’s simply playing along. 

She’s in the middle of _playing along_ when she realizes her grave misstep. In the short moment she’s taken her eyes off of him, he has weaved back around to where she has staked her claim of the room and made his place by her side, as if he’d been there the whole night. He leans over her shoulder, sending a chill up her spine. 

“Excuse me, my dear.” His breath is warm against the shell of her ear and for a moment, she thinks he’s finally deigned to speak to her. “Terribly sorry, but I have to borrow my friend for a moment.” 

As he tugs her away from her companion, she opens her mouth to break their silence and tell him just what she thinks of _that _little show. Before she gets the chance, Asmodeus is tilting her chin towards him with a delicate touch and pressing his lips to hers. Whatever complaint she’d been about to make dies on her tongue, her hands coming to rest on the curve of his hips. There is nothing to it of the usual devouring they have shared in the past, nothing more than the soft sigh of his breath against her and the tightening of his arm around her waist. Yet, there’s something in that by itself. They’ve never kissed for the sake of kissing- always some deeper intent behind it, the type of kisses where teeth collide. Never- _this_. And oddly, it’s that lack of desperation behind it that steals her breath away. 

Just like that, she’s fallen into his grip once again. But it’s Asmodeus who breaks the kiss first, leaving her soft and longing. She looks up at him through her heavy lashes, catching his crimson gaze and the now-uneven smear of red across his mouth. He leans back, producing a kerchief from seemingly nowhere to dab at the edges of his lips. 

Raphael opens her mouth to - she isn’t sure what. Say something. Anything. But one look at him, and she decides against it. 

And then he’s gone. Her eyes can only just catch the back of his coat in the crowd. 

* * *

**-A Devil’s Bridge, Somewhere in the UK, 1941 AD-**

In truth, neither Heaven nor Hell have anything to do with the carnage of this war. They rarely do, really. As with most wars, Asmodeus has stayed strictly Out of It. Of course, he has his opinions, as any respectable person might. He’s seen wars come and go, but as they go, this one has tipped its way firmly into the _worst one yet_ territory. Still, he’s not a warrior. He suspects he never has been. There’s not much he can _do_, not really, though he slips in a few demonic miracles here and there. As a Prince, he doesn’t really have that many people to report to, aside from Lucifer himself and it’s not as if _he’ll _yell at him. It makes things much easier, he thinks, though now without the Arrangement… 

It hadn’t exactly been his intention to get dragged into this, but let it never be said that he’s a man-shaped being to pass up an opportunity. And one certainly comes knocking. In quite the literal sense. 

The Soho establishment belonging to Alexander Ignatius Deus, is not, by any stretch of means, a fine example of a bookshop. There are all sorts of sordid things said to be held on its shelves, all manner of smut and other nefarious texts. But if asked, the owner will tell you quite proudly that sinful material isn’t _all _he collects. In the shop are rumored to be a rather impressive collection of first edition prophecy books [9], some of them never having made it to a second printing at all. Indeed, he’d tell you he’s had all _manners _of inquiries about them, and he’s turned down every one. 

That is to say, it doesn’t come as much of a shock when some rather severe looking gentleman arrive at the bookshop, eyes shifting suspiciously as they approach the counter. 

Asmodeus looks up from his newspaper, eyes narrowing slightly. “The shop’s closed, gentlemen. You can come back during our open hours.” 

The men glance at each other before putting on their most winning smiles. It doesn’t take a demonic genius to feel the waves of pure evil emanating from them and Asmodeus finds it quite difficult to not turn them to ash on the spot. 

“Ah- yes, we saw,” says the tall, ginger fellow. His accent is thick and his hat is clutched in his hands, held to his chest. “However, we were hoping- we might speak with Mr. Deus? It is- a private matter, you see, one of great importance.” He offers a beaming grin. 

“Well, you’re speaking to him, but I really must insist-” 

“I am Mr. Harmony and this is my associate, Mr. Glozier.” The man offers his hand and Asmodeus simply stares at it as if it’ll grow fangs and bite him. 

Having had quite enough of this, Asmodeus clears his throat. “What do you _want_?” The words are low, a demonic suggestion that says: _tell me why you’re really here, tell me all your deepest secrets, let me hear_. A rather useful talent, especially when he wants to get to the point. 

And just like that, they’re spilling all their nastiest plans to him as if he isn’t some used bookshop owner and instead the most trusted among them. They do so gleefully, not even aware that it’s being pried from their greedy hands. Asmodeus does listen, carefully masking his expression to one of neutrality while his gut turns. 

“-price is no issue. We just need the books, Mr. Deus, and we could reward you handsomely indeed,” Mr. Glozier finishes, this time, sounding like he’s offered Asmodeus the entire world and feels quite proud of himself for it. 

He nearly follows through on that ash bit, until he remembers a nice young woman he’d met some months ago that had told him to come to her, if he ever heard anything suspicious. Well, as a Prince of Hell, he certainly hears plenty of suspicious going ons, but he’d gotten her drift well enough. Besides that, he has an opportunity here, to get something he’s been in search of since 1862. 

His lips turn up into a smile- nearly a sneer, though they can’t tell the difference. “I’m afraid the books are on loan to a friend of mine at the moment. However, we can set up an… arrangement, as it were, providing adequate _compensation_.” The look he levels them with is a good indication that he isn’t talking about _money_. 

The men look at each other, coming to a wordless agreement before Mr. Glozier nods. “We’ll need to discuss the terms, of course, but I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement.” 

“Right this way, then.” Asmodeus steps from behind the counter to gesture towards the back room. 

And then, he gets to work. 

* * *

As it turns out, he’s made a fatal misjudgement in his choice of English spies. He finds this out the hard way, when he’s being shoved backwards into a binding sigil that the two men had been hiding just behind them. He stumbles, feeling a mix of shock and a blinding _annoyance_. The amount of paperwork he’ll have to do now- 

“We know who you are and _what _you are, though we have to admit- the simple bookseller act, it is a good one, yes? Nearly had us fooled, but- ah, well, too late for that now. What was it you said?” Mr. Harmony squints, tapping his chin before his eyes light up. “You have been _played for a sucker_. I_ like that_.” 

Asmodeus sighs, preparing himself for a rather painful discorporation. And then, not unlike a miracle straight from heaven, he hears the roar of an engine and headlights coming into view as someone pulls up to the river. 

When the driver gets out, he can’t hold back the giddy little grin that lights up his face. “We’ll see about that.” 

* * *

Since their unfortunate split and even more _complicated _interlude in Berlin, Raphael has kept his tabs on Asmodeus. Of course, if Heaven asks, he has the perfect excuse that he’s making sure he doesn’t get up to too much trouble. He’ll be ready to step in and thwart given any reason, see. The truth is… well, the truth isn’t something Raphael particularly wants to dwell on. He gives him quite a wide berth, but he does keep an ear to the ground, so to speak [10]. 

And recently, the ground has told him some rather disturbing things. About some rather unsavory gentlemen visiting the demon’s bookshop and deals made to meet at the dead of night. And the thing is- the thing is, Raphael is sure Asmodeus has a perfectly _good _explanation for it. They might not have talked in nearly a century, but they’ve gone longer and against his better judgement Raphael does find he still trusts him. 

But trust is a completely different topic from _worry_. In fact, the phrase “not in the same ballpark” isn’t even enough to adequately cover it. Something more like, “so far apart that the gravity between two objects, impossibly, reaches zero” would be far more accurate. Because yes, Raphael does trust Asmodeus, but that absolutely does not stop him from worrying about him. 

It’s that worry and perhaps some sort of sixth sense that drives him to follow that ever familiar tug and find the demon before he can make that deal, or follow through on whatever plan it is he’s been cooking up. 

Recently, he’s acquired a _car_. A rather nice one at that: a 1933 Bentley. He likes to turn on the radio and roll down the windows, let the wind blow through his hair. Never mind the fact that were he a human, he would’ve crashed the thing a hundred times over- it’s his pride and joy. It’s with some understandable trepidation that he decides it’s the best means of getting to his friend. He has no idea who he might be with, what sort of situation he might be in, and if he just… _pops in_, he might draw some undue attention to his supernatural nature. 

As he nears the demon’s aura, he grows more wary of his surroundings. He’s in the middle of absolutely bloody nowhere. So nowhere, in fact, that even the local farmers that always have some sort of half-baked directions making reference to The Big Rock or The Old Road Bend would have absolutely no idea where he’s headed. It makes Raphael’s hands tighten around his steering wheel with the slightest hint of a frown. 

“What _have _you gotten yourself into this time, dearheart?” he mumbles to himself, reaching to turn down the radio volume a bit to focus better. He hadn’t liked the song playing much, anyway. 

\- 

When he pulls up, the hairs on his arms stand on end, a shiver down his spine. From here, he can’t make out much from the bridge except some rather blurry figures. One of them is most certainly his demon. But the most disconcerting realization is the _location_. 

There are very few places in the world that an angel cannot go. Many more that a demon can’t, certainly. Anywhere some wayward priest decides should be blessed and suddenly it’s completely inaccessible to them. Make the right kind of circle with salt and you’ve got yourself the perfect formula for demon-proofing. Angels, on the other hand, are a lot harder to get rid of. In fact, for obvious reasons, no one ever really _tries_. But there are two: Crossroads (the sort with the capital C) and devil’s bridges. Residual demonic energies from deals made and feral magic leftover from wayward leylines- well, it makes them quite problematic for any non-demonic creature of interesting origins. Especially so for their exact opposites. 

Raphael scowls. Of course Asmodeus would choose a devil’s bridge, the bastard. Shaking his head and with a put-upon sigh, just _knowing _he was going to regret this, he opens the door and slides out. Immediately he’s hit with a mild ebbing wave of- not _nausea, _but close. It’s fine. He’ll survive. He places his hat on his head as he comes closer, the figures on the bridge coming into clearer focus. He can just catch Asmodeus’ wild grin as he gleefully recounts something probably nasty to his captors, and Raphael’s stomach flips in a way completely unrelated to his proximity to this most cursed of locations. It’s been so _long-_

As he crosses the threshold onto the bridge he’s immediately awash with the feeling that he’d been quite suddenly drained of any energy he’d had, sluggish and disorientated. Like getting off a ride at the fair and finding it suddenly hard to stand on both feet. His head feels like it’s filled with cotton and he shakes it like he’s trying to dislodge it out his ears. 

Through the fog, he can just hear Asmodeus’ voice. “And just _what_ are _you_ doing here?” He doesn’t sound accusatory, or truly very angry at all. A small part of Raphael feels _relief_. Whatever their fight had been, it seems it’s run its course. 

“Getting you out of trouble,” he replies, tongue feeling thick. He wrinkles his nose, clicking it against his teeth a few times and trying to refocus his gaze. His eyes flicker to where he can see the outline of a binding sigil, the thought making him a bit sick. _Humans_. 

Resting on the ground near a pile of books is something quite out of place: a thermos. An unsettling feeling finds its way to the pit of his stomach. 

In some other life, the Nazis might’ve recognized him. In this, they just watch him in a sort of bafflement that one might get watching a strange man approach them on a devil’s bridge looking like he’d just gotten a bucket of ice water dumped on him. 

“And you are…?” 

“Raphael- er, Bliant.” His eyes flicker to Asmodeus’, whose brows shoot up. 

“Bliant?” 

“You don’t like it?” 

Asmodeus makes a non-committal noise. “No- I didn’t say that. It’s… well, it certainly is _something_.” 

“What’s_ that_ supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing! I’ll get used to it- it does have something of a ring to it-” 

“Enough of this,” the short, round man demands, bridge of his nose pinched irritably as he gestures to the young woman that has her gun pointed at Asmodeus. “Kill them both.” 

Raphael gives Asmodeus a rather pointed look, hoping he’s caught up on his supernatural entities enough to realize that Raphael is very nearly _useless _now. He doesn’t have the energy for what he’s about to suggest, but he’s counting the demon to pick up his slack. “No no- listen. Listen. In a minute, a German bomber will release a bomb that’ll land-_ right here._ If you run very, _very _fast, you might not die.” 

He may be _nearly _useless, but that didn’t mean _entirely_. During his speech he makes a tiny gesture, enough to simply be perceived as emphasising his point, nothing the humans would notice as anything unusual now that their eyes are on him. But it’s just enough for the binding sigil to be just, _just _cracked, just enough for a bit of _fun_ to be had. He hears Asmodeus’ intake of breath as his powers return to him. 

“You expect us to believe that?” asks the man with an incredulous laugh. “There are not bombs here! We are nowhere!” 

Not willing to take any chances, Raphael tries again. “Yes, it’d take a bit of a _demonic intervention_ to throw them off course, wouldn’t it? You’re wasting your valuable running-away time, here, you know-” 

“A _demonic intervention?_” The other German man scoffs. “If you did not notice, your friend is incapacitated. He is of no help to you.” 

“You know…” 

All attention turns to the formerly bound party. 

Asmodeus is _grinning -_ a ferocious thing, feral, all teeth and little else. Much to the horror of his captors he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck and steps free of his cage, raising an arm towards the sky. In seconds, they all hear the distinct drone of plane’s engines overhead. The Nazis pale, starting to back away. “You really should’ve run when he told you,” the Prince of Hell comments smugly. 

With the last of his energy, Raphael wraps all six of his wings around the two of them, a protective cradle against the oncoming carnage. 

* * *

The first thing Asmodeus registers beyond the ringing in his ears is the cold bite of water filling his lungs. Of course, they are as unnecessary as the air he breathes, but the sensation is still one that leaves him feeling _vulnerable_, particularly after such a use of power. With some amount of effort, he manages to surface, coughing in a rather unbefitting manner until he manages to clear some of the water with a grimace. 

He hears a gasp of breath beside him and anxiety he hadn’t realized he’d been feeling eases, sparing Raphael a glance as they both swim towards the shore. Once they reach it, they both collapse, Asmodeus on his back and Raphael sat up with his knees bent, trying to catch his breath and steady himself. 

Behind them, the bridge is crumbling, parts of it still on fire. From here, Asmodeus thinks he can see one of the Nazi’s hands floating along the river. 

And he _laughs_. 

It starts as a little thing in his chest, bubbling up into a giggle that turns into a full bodied laugh, turning his face into the wet earth beside him. When he looks to his companion, Raphael is looking at him with wide eyed bewilderment, sending him into another fit of laughter. 

“You alright, then?” Raphael asks, half in confusion and half in concern. 

Asmodeus just grins. “Oh- perfectly- perfectly well, my dear boy-” But the words trail off into more laughter, until Raphael’s lips twitch into a smile of their own and eventually his laughter joins the demon’s. 

The two of them sit and lay on the shore, respectively, for an undetermined amount of time- laughing and laughing until tears spring from their eyes and their cheeks hurt from it. Not long enough for the sun to rise, but long enough for the moon to shine just the slightest bit brighter. 

It’s Asmodeus that breaks first, struggling to sit up as he calms his breathing, avoiding looking at Raphael lest he start to laugh again. His chest burns, though he’s not sure if it’s from the water or the laughter. He lets out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a sigh, and struggles up from the ground. Raphael calms shortly after him, though when he goes to stand up it’s with significantly less grace. Asmodeus immediately extends his hand, letting the angel pull himself up by his grip. 

“Are _you _alright?” he asks, brows rising as Raphael seems to sway a moment. 

He waves a hand. “Yeah- ‘s just, cursed ground. Horrible stuff, for angels. Makes you feel like you’ve gone a few rounds with a really- a really big bear, that likes swingin’ you around,” he explains, as if that metaphor makes an ounce of sense. Luckily for him, it does to Asmodeus, who nods quite sagely. 

“I see. Well, at least you managed to keep us safe. A discorporation now would be- well, it doesn’t do thinking about.” He shudders, looking around. As his gaze settles on a smoldering briefcase, realization dawns and his stomach swoops in abject horror. 

“Oh- the _books_, I forgot _all _about the books!” he cries, looking quite stricken. All that time spent collecting them- the notes he’d taken in the margins [11]! They’re irreplaceable and they’d been blown to _bits-_

Raphael is moving towards the river, bending down to pull something from the current. He straightens back up, walking towards Asmodeus with a carefully blank look and handing him his books. Perfectly intact. 

There’s nothing the demon can do but _gape_, eyes as round as dinner plates as he stares at the angel. He holds the books limply, his throat a bit dry despite all the water that’d been in it not that long ago. “_Oh_.” It’s a start. “I- _oh_.” 

“Little miracle of my own,” Raphael mumbles, shifting uncomfortably as Asmodeus continues to stare. He shuts his mouth with a _click_, swallowing thickly. 

“Thank you.” It’s barely above a whisper. Of all things- Raphael had been all out of sorts, barely able to scrape them by in one piece, and yet he’d thought about his _books_. Enough to keep them from burning and even from getting waterlogged. They’re still in the same condition Asmodeus had brought them in. Not a scratch. They hadn’t seen each other in nearly a century, but he had- he’d- 

Raphael’s cheeks tinge red, already starting towards where he’d parked his car. “_Shut_ up.” 

Something heavy and quite _warm _settles in the center of the demon’s chest as the angel walks away. Odd. He feels like he’s stuck to the spot, trapped again, though this time there’s no sigil keeping him in place. Just his own shellshock. 

“Are you coming?” comes Raphael’s voice, distant now. Asmodeus hurries to follow him. 

* * *

Before the demon makes it to the Bentley, Raphael turns over a thermos full of Holy Water onto the ground, watching it sink into the dirt with a mild fizzle. The books weren’t the only thing he’d kept from the wreckage, making sure it wouldn’t somehow find its way back to the demon. Asmodeus won’t ever know. 

It stung, lying to him. But if there was one thing he’d learned in his time among Heaven’s ranks, it’s that occasionally it’s _better this way._

He vanishes the thermos with a flick of his hand, sliding into the driver’s side as he hears Asmodeus hurried footsteps. The passenger door opens and Raphael turns to him with a smile. “Your bookshop, then?” 

* * *

It’s some weeks later when Asmodeus sits ramrod straight in his plush armchair where he’s been sat from the moment Raphael had dropped him off. Where he’s been going over nearly six thousand years of interactions, taking them apart and putting them back together again in an entirely new order. All their lunches, all the laughter, every press of lips, and every shuddering breath- it takes on a new shape, terrifying in its enormity. 

_Oh_, comes the realization, _it’s him. I love him._

_“Fuck.”_

* * *

1 Typewriters were not popularized until 1867 - however, the much less popular, vastly inferior and incredibly irritating typowriter had of course been adopted by heaven as soon as its release. They had been so sure it would take right off. They had been wrong. [ return to text ] 

2 Frankly, he was surprised they hadn’t been disbanded entirely. Were they even still on the payroll? [ return to text ] 

3 Seven of them, two of which miracled their way past human perception so as to not bother with changing their corporation’s physical form. Chastity had been terribly irritated when she found out women couldn’t be doctors. [ return to text ] 

4 This was not a commentary on the Archangel, who Asmodeus had never met. He had, however, met a Michael with _astoundingly_ horrid dental hygiene. [ return to text ] 

5 This mutual acquaintance happens to be one Robbie Ross. Oddly, everyone seems to think he held an uncanny resemblance to Asmodeus, though neither of them can see it. [ return to text ] 

6 America is anything but new. It’s existed and held many civilizations for much longer than it’s given credit for. [ return to text ] 

7 This is not, in actuality, a term of endearment between them. It belongs firmly to Lucifer, with whom they’ve both had unpleasant dealings. Its use here is the equivalent of “BASTARD.” [ return to text ] 

8 It had been the Virtues’ idea. They decided Raphael needed a break. Raphael rather thinks it a terrible idea, truth be told, given that she has just been on the other side of their war. [ return to text ] 

9 All excepting _the_ prophecy book, though if you ask Mr. Deus about that, he won’t take too kindly to the reminder and you might find yourself suddenly lost somewhere that looks quite a bit like the Australian wilderness. [ return to text ] 

10 Raphael does not necessarily work for the Allies, not in the strictest sense. Heaven would have a few things to say about him directly involving himself with human affairs like that. Again. But he does have his connections and he does use those connections, from time to time. [ return to text ] 

11 If Asmodeus were, hypothetically, an angel instead of a demon, he wouldn’t have had the stomach to write in the margins of his books. As a demon, though, he has no problem with it. As long as he makes sure they’re perfectly able to wipe away with a wave of his hand, of course. [ return to text ] 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **drug tw:** asmodeus finds himself embroiled in the culture surrounding opium dens, and thinks about raphael while he's uninhibited enough to do so.
> 
> **violence tw:** raphael takes it upon himself to join the war effort as a surgeon, and his virtues follow his lead as nurses. as he works to help save a man's life, he contemplates all the things asmodeus could be doing at current, and hopes that he's safe.
> 
> credit for insp for the berlin scene is [this gorgeous fanart](https://yumbles.tumblr.com/post/185966375578/crowley-and-aziraphale-run-into-each-other-in)
> 
> once again thank you so much to thornscrowned on tumblr for some [beautiful art](https://thornscrowned.tumblr.com/post/188185391200/obligatory-back-at-it-again-with-my-fanfic) for chapter 4 <3 we seriously appreciate all your art for this fic it's always so good. 
> 
> thank you so much for reading and commenting <3 you guys keep us going. the fic has officially passed the 100k mark and we're still doing show content. lord. we're so glad you all like it and keep coming back to it.


	6. *chuckles* i'm in (the) danger (zone)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first thing's first: sorry for the wait on this one, guys! we know y'all have been waiting for this, and we appreciate the patience. you're all angels. or demons, if you prefer. whichever.
> 
> this chapter is- a monster, even in comparison to the rest of the fic. not a lot happens, and yet Everything happens. you'll see what we mean.
> 
> next update should be december 9, 2019! (but knowing us it might be the 10th...)
> 
> there's some vague sexual content in this chapter throughout but it's nothing explicit at all, just implied. think fade to black on some cw show. without the bad writing.
> 
> getting this out of the way: in this chapter asmodeus calls raphael his "darling wife". <strike>die mad about it.</strike> no but seriously there's been some Discourse about titles/pronouns for crowley and his gender and like we have a lot of thoughts about this but suffice it to say titles/pronouns =/= gender. asmodeus is still a gay man (-adjacent being) even though he's attracted to a nonbinary person. some nonbinary/gnc people would not want to be called wife in this situation and that's fine but we felt raphael wouldn't mind it. read on for context ;)

**-London, England, 1967 AD-**

Twenty years and some change pass, and Asmodeus - as bullheaded as he is - has refused to give up on the holy water. With how _cut-throat _his current place of work is, he can’t afford to leave well enough alone. It may be paranoia, or it may be reality - but Asmodeus has ever been served well by his intuition, and in this he cannot afford to be lax. 

Any Prince can turn on another, if there is ample reasoning. And he’s starting to worry that there’s more than enough _ample reasoning_ to have him put away quite permanently. The weather in Tartarus is never cooperative, and it would be justHell on his books. 

So, when he has exhausted all other options, he formulates a plan. 

His plans are, usually, very well-thought out. 

Admittedly, his first mistake with this plan may have been forgetting that his choice of henchpeople was… not exactly _ideal_. 

It should have been easy. In and out. It was a church, for Satan’s sake - and a Catholic one, at that, properly consecrated and everything. He shouldn’t have even needed to set foot in it. But when his… _human operatives_ radio in that not only is the priest still awake but there is a_ deacon_ there, too, even though it is well past midnight and well past that man’s time to go home, Asmodeus can’t help but sigh. 

He most definitely does not trust the sneaking skills of that so-called_ witchfinder._ He holds up his handheld transceiver. “What is he doing, Lance Corporal?” 

A resolute, if mild, crackle crawls out and then the man’s hushed voice comes through. _“Prayin’, looks like.”_

Asmodeus grinds his teeth. “Yes, obviously, but praying about _what?_” 

There’s a moment of silence, then:_ “Summin’bout curin’ his… affliction. ‘Is tendencies? ‘Dunno what ‘e’s on about. S’put ‘im front’n’center stage, though.”_

That sounds interesting. Asmodeus hums. “And the deacon?” 

_“Nowhere t’be seen.”_

One of their other_ coworkers_’ voices pipes up. _“D’you want me t’handle him? I can do a convincin’ heartbroken widow, he wouldn’t last a chance. Over.”_

Asmodeus has the impression of Sally immediately adjusting her bosom before setting to work on trying to ‘handle’ the priest. _That_ would be a disaster waiting to happen, especially if what he senses wafting off of the poor man is what he thinks it is. He weighs the pros and cons, the potential risks and gains, and finds he’s already come to his decision. 

“No, my dear girl, that won’t be necessary. Remain in position. I think I will do the _handling_ myself. Er, over.” 

He can be _very_ distracting. He’d just have to be quick, is all. It will be fine; not as though a little consecrated ground can destroy a _Prince of Hell_. He’s made of sterner stuff than most. Asmodeus can handle a little stinging. He _can_. This is the mantra he repeats as he leaves their little human van, adamantly refusing to consider the damage that could be done to this corporation if this goes wrong. The paperwork just doesn’t bear thinking about. 

His first step on the premises doesn’t _sting _so much as it does _burn with all the fires of-_ well, Heaven. It’s perfectly fine. It’s to be expected. 

His second step hurts no less, but rather then be sensible and try something else he mulishly resolves to_ bear it_. It simply wouldn’t do to go hopping about through the pews like a fool, and it isn’t as if he trusts any of those imbeciles enough for him to leave. 

To any outside human eye, his pace could only be described as slightly stiff but overall_ very normal_. His steps were neither too large nor too small, neither too fast nor too slow - indeed, it’s perfectly level a walk in all respects, which perhaps would have belied his agony to any who knew him, and the closer to the building he got the more it seethed. It was more than the constant low-level sting any demon knew, closer in similarity to the agony of the Fall that he had been trying so very hard not to recall. It was more than being, say, barefoot at the beach - more than the asphalt of the streets in an American summer. If he didn’t know any better, he’d wonder if his shoes were melting around him. 

As it is, he knows better, and knows that the sensation is his feet melting from beneath him, not just his_ shoes_. He stumbles once, and _only_ the once, clinging to the side of a pew with a half-choked whine. The sound of his fall is like a gunshot in the otherwise-silent church. 

This does not go unnoticed, but that’s not an issue. Asmodeus is forming this particular part of the plan as he goes and right now it’s starting off flawlessly. The priest's prayer is halted with the gasp of a man who up until that moment had been _so certain_ that he had been alone in his misery. “Who’s there?” he exclaims, casting his eyes about. “Is that you, Brother William?” 

His gaze alights upon the demon in his church, and he startles. 

Not that he’d know his intruder was a demon. Asmodeus prides himself on his skill with a carefully constructed glamour. In this catholic priest’s sight there isn’t a cat’s eye about Asmodeus and nary a fang in sight. 

“Oh, good Lord,” the priest - whose name was Father Isaac, ostensibly - says softly, rising to take Asmodeus’ arm and guide him to the front, help him to sit. His tricked eyes showed him a purely mortal young man with pretty hazel eyes, in need of more than a spot of help. His tricked eyes couldn’t be more wrong. “Who- what- _how did you get in here_, at this hour?” 

At the first touch of his arm, Asmodeus already knows how to _handle_ this - and oh, what fun it would be. He tucks his bleeding feet up beneath him, releasing a sigh of relief. “The doors,” he says, with mock-earnesty. “They were unlocked, Father. I…” 

And here he leans close, blinking crocodile tears from sparkling eyes, laying just the barest amount of pressure on the bruise of the priest’s perceived ‘sin’ with the delicate touch of a hand to his chest. “Please, Father,” the demon coos, “I had nowhere else to go.” 

Beneath Asmodeus’ hand, Father Isaac’s heart trembles. Asmodeus can feel the shiver, the accompanying flutter of lust. It’s almost _cute_. The mortal man wets his lips, and wraps his hand around Asmodeus’ wrist with an almost stern look. “My child, have you been drinking?” 

“Never,” Asmodeus responds, his eyes wide with honesty. Humans. So easy to fool. He looks askance at where Shadwell is hiding, and pats the spot on the pew next to him, drawing the priest down. “Never. Please, would you sit with me? I need…” 

He makes a face, casting about for a word. “...counseling?” 

Sure. That would do. Isaac frowns in concern, seating himself. “What troubles you, child?” 

The last time Asmodeus had known an Isaac, the poor thing’s father had very nearly killed him. 

“Actually,” Asmodeus says, shifting even closer until their sides are pressed flush, “I wonder if we might talk about what troubles _you_, first.” He rests a gentle hand on the man’s thigh, lowering his voice and allowing the thrum of infernal power take the priest’s heart. “When was the last time _you_ had someone listen, Father? You had sounded so… taken, with your prayer.” 

“I - I don’t think that would be wise,” Isaac counters. He hesitates, then covers Asmodeus’ hand with his own, looks down at them joined in his lap. “It’s not something I should burden one of the flock with.” 

“I am not of your flock,” Asmodeus breathes, and closes the distance between them in a kiss. 

As it’s the poor man’s first kiss, he decides to be merciful and not pour every ounce of desire and hellfire into it. It doesn’t sear, it isn’t even overtly lustful- Father Isaac is the one that makes it so, with his tiny little whimper and shudder. He is the one who opens his mouth for Asmodeus, he is the one that shifts closer; no doubt closer to him than he’d ever been to anyone before. Asmodeus all but purrs against his mouth, before he remembers that humans don’t typically purr. 

He settles for a smile instead. 

It’s feeling that smile that causes Isaac to jolt away, as if he’d been burned. His hand flies from Asmodeus’ to his mouth, pressing in horror at kiss-reddened lips. “I- you-” 

“Relax,” Asmodeus soothes. “My dear boy, there is not a single soul here that you need to worry about, other than our own.” 

Isaac’s eyes are cast upwards, at the cross hanging above their heads. “But-” 

“He wouldn’t mind,” Asmodeus continues, eyes half lidded as he drifts into the priest’s personal space. _“Trust me.”_

He imbues the words with no small amount of power - not so much as to override the Father’s free will, but just enough to encourage Choice. 

Father Isaac chooses, and their lips meet again in a decidedly less chaste kiss. Asmodeus slides close until he’s practically in the man’s lap, threading his fingers through his close-cropped hair, slipping his hand up under the cassock to take him in hand. Isaac _moans_. 

“There, now,” Asmodeus whispers against his mouth, breaking the kiss to breathe and sigh for that is a thing mortals need to do. Isaac bucks under his touch with a piteous cry. “Easy, my dear, just like that…” 

Across the room, the third part of their posse pokes his head up with a questioning gesture. Asmodeus scowls over the priest’s shoulder and waves him off. “Yes,” he praises, mouthing _‘go get out not yet’ _between words with a frantic gesture. He masks it by wrapping that arm around his prey’s shoulders to cling closer, grinding down into his lap. “_Yes._” 

Isaac gasps and spills into Asmodeus’ hand, none the wiser of the things going on around him. 

He can already feel the shame curling into the man’s belly, and so he distracts it with a whispered plea into his ear; something like _“take me to your bed” _or _“make love to me,”_ whatever he needs to hear to leave and take Asmodeus with him to ensure he remains _distracted_. 

Isaac takes him by the hand. 

The earth beneath Asmodeus’ feet continues to burn as he’s lead away. 

* * *

The bed doesn’t burn at_ all. _[1]

* * *

Asmodeus sits up, putting his back against the priest’s headboard. He bounces the leg he has draped off the edge of the bed and lights a cigarette with a flick of his fingers. Beside him, Father - can he even call himself that, now? - Isaac lays, still panting, naked as Adam in the garden with tangled sheets strategically placed to cover himself. 

He’s not terrible to look at, really. Almost handsome. Asmodeus has certainly done worse in the past. 

He takes a drag. “Was it good for you, dear?” 

It’s hard to not be smug about the answering groan. Asmodeus rolls over with a satisfied sigh, props himself up on an arm to take in this catch. Isaac uncovers an eye to look at him, and then his entire face curls into indignance. 

“You can’t smoke in here!” 

“Oh, but I can, Father. Who’s going to stop me? You?” His smile isn’t fond, not really, in fact it’s rather bored- but it’s something close enough to fond so as to be calming to the priest. He leans closer. “Are you going to _make me?_” 

Isaac sits up, reaching for him. “I very well_ might._” 

Oh, they grow up so fast. Already this one is challenging Asmodeus to a third round. He’s just about to take him up on it, too, when they’re interrupted. There’s an urgent fist against the door, and then it’s thrown open without waiting for response. 

“Father Isaac,” the stranger exclaims, presumably that deacon William that Asmodeus has heard so much about. “There are some kind of _hooligans_ in the-” 

And it is here that everything really begins to go very, very wrong. The deacon splutters, blusters a cry of _“what is the meaning of this,”_ and Isaac scrambles away from Asmodeus with a shriek. 

You see, in his surprise at their interruption (he’d rather jumped out of his skin, in fact), Asmodeus had mistakenly dropped his disguise. Isaac’s face was inches from his own and in a second instead of hazel eyes there was _red_, and instead of a personable smile the mouth he’d been about to kiss was full of teeth far too large for it. He realizes, very abruptly, what this creature he has taken to his bed _truly_ is, and his life shatters apart. 

Asmodeus, for his part, is decidedly nonplussed. Annoyed, even. In seconds he’s up, begging off a third round, and clothed with a snap. “Sorry, gentlemen,” he says, dancing out of reach on tormented feet that have long reached their limit an hour ago and thensome, “I can’t stick around long- business to attend to, you know how it is.” 

There’s naught but shouting left in his wake. 

He hoped to Someone his people had managed to get what they came here for before mucking it up. He’d be surprised if he still had feet after all this, and his pace rapidly devolves from what could barely be called a walk in the first place into more of a stumbling limp. Distantly he can hear the wail of police sirens. 

The sanctuary of the church is in _shambles_. As he lurches past, the portrait of their Messiah has seemingly seen enough and quite given up; it falls from its place of pride with a resolute crack. 

Asmodeus can relate. 

* * *

“_What_ in the _bloody Hell _went wrong?” He snarls as soon as he is free, his three ‘operatives’ already waiting for him with suspiciously empty hands. 

“Our_ replacement _‘ere knocked over a fuckin’ _candelabra,_” their muscle spits, nursing a split lip. Said replacement starts towards the man with a look that could almost be called murderous, and may very well have become that had the only woman of the group not put herself between Shadwell and the other man. “No you don’t start,” she snaps. “Not _again_.” 

If Asmodeus does not reach a safe place very soon he may collapse, and here he is with three _complete imbeciles_. “_Did you,_” he seethes, shifting on his feet, “at_ least_, complete the _objective_.” 

“Didnae,” Shadwell grouses. “This’n’s too busy _shovin’ me _t’-” 

**_“Enough,” _**Asmodeus hisses, imbuing the word with enough innate malice to cause all three of the humans to startle away. He points a talon imperiously. “_You two. _Leave.” 

“What about our-” 

“Your _reward_ is _living,” _he says coldly. “As I understand it, people are _very fond of continuing to do so. Leave.”_

When put like that, and with no small amount of demonic power behind it, how can they argue? The superfluous humans are compelled to run very, _very_ far very, _very_ fast - and so they do. 

That left the witchfinder, the only person whose name he bothered to remember. 

“You.” He’s beginning to sway on his feet, leaving black blood behind. “You will drive.” 

Shadwell can’t exactly argue with that. 

* * *

“Yer _sure _y’not a witch?” 

“I am merely _very convincing,_ my dear boy. _Drive._” 

As far as Shadwell knew, witches were not convincing at all. Why else would they have been burned so often? 

He drives. 

* * *

Asmodeus drifts in and out of consciousness, residual celestial energy wreaking havoc in his system. He is stronger than this. He is a Prince of Hell. He will be_ fine_. 

“We’ll be in touch,” he says, moving on autopilot as if in a dream. After a night like this, Shadwell doesn’t bother argue. 

“Y’sure y’shouldnae go to a- a _doctor,_ ‘f some kind?” 

Asmodeus looks out the window at the apartment building he’s been taken to. “I’ll be seeing a healer.” 

Making his way up the stairs is Hell, and he finds he’s rather checked out of his body for a time, mentally. He’s knocking on a door before he even knows he’s reached the right flat. 

When there’s no immediate answer, he raises his fist unsteadily to pound again- but then, for the second time that night, a door is opened for him. Dim light pours out into the hall, haloed around Raphael’s sleep-mussed hair, casting the bags under his eyes in stark shadow. 

Maybe it’s that Asmodeus is vaguely worried he might be dying, but to his eyes, Raphael has never looked more angelic. 

“What’sso _bloody important _that y’need to go bangin’ about at _ungodly _hours of the morning, wakin’ fucking _everyone_-” 

The Archangel’s rant stumbles to a stop at the sight of him. 

“Raphael,” Asmodeus breathes, and smiles. _Finally. _“Terribly sorry to bother - I’m afraid there’s been a bit of an accident.” 

And then, his corporation decides to throw in the towel, and Asmodeus falls. 

* * *

“Idiot,” his angel proclaims, muttering to himself as he undresses Asmodeus. “_Fucking_ idiot.” 

Asmodeus, were he conscious, wouldn’t be able to argue that point. 

* * *

Raphael is more than just a Healer, now- he is a doctor. A real practitioner, has been since the late 1800s with some minor miracles to keep up with his paperwork and avoid dating himself. Conveniently, Asmodeus currently has need of both a healer _and_ doctor. With him in this state, Raphael dare not use his power; he has burned enough already, for one night, and he could swear the demon’s feet are still sizzling in his shoes. 

“What did you _do_?” he hisses, easing Asmodeus’ feet free from their leather prison. He winces at the sickly squelch of cooling blood and foul stench of burned flesh. “Bloody, blasted idiot.” 

The socks come next and are immediately tossed in the bin with no remorse. Raphael sits back on his heels, looking up at the position he has dumped his friend in- half on his side on the couch, not even the reassuring rise and fall of his chest since he’s never seen as much point to the pretense as Raphael. He’d need to get towels, bowls- fucking, _bandages_, ointment. This would need to be healed the long way. Asmodeus is lucky he still has feet left at all, if what Raphael sees here is what it looks like. What was he_ thinking_? And why did Raphael not know about it until now? He’d hoped the whole ordeal with the Nazis would be the last he’d hear of it. Apparently, he’d been sorely mistaken on that front. Consecrated ground. On his own. That _idiot_. [2]

He could have _died _tonight and Raphael wouldn’t have even known about it until his demonic replacement made its way into the world. 

Abandoning Asmodeus there alone, so open and defenseless, leaves Raphael with an unpleasant taste in his mouth, but he needs his supplies to work. Luckily he keeps a bag stocked just these sorts of occasions in his closet, as any responsible medical professional should. He leaves the demon with a gentle touch of his hand, well aware he’s too far gone to feel it. Just a quick trip to the other room. Nothing can happen to him in the interim. Not a thing. Not even Asmodeus could manage to find himself trouble while _unconscious_\- 

There’s the barest whine from the other room, and Raphael_ immediately _warps back to his side with his supplies in hand. He’s not worried. It’s fine. Clearly. _Obviously_. 

He shoves Asmodeus’ coat off of his shoulders, rolls his singed pantlegs up, fretting as he does. Perhaps he’s overthinking this. It may not even be what it looks like. Maybe it was an accident. Asmodeus can handle himself, surely. He’s a grown being, older than the earth itself. He’ll be fine, just needs a little rest, but if this continues… how much further is he willing to _go_? And what if he _doesn’t _make it out the next time? It’s not like discorporation, something they’ve both experienced a time or two. There’s no coming back from this. Raphael has seen a demon felled to holy water and consecrated ground more than once. The idea of that happening to his- _his_\- 

Raphael’s hands shake as dips the worn flannel he’d grabbed into the bowl of water, breath coming fast and tight in his chest. It just doesn’t bear thinking about. He cannot handle the idea of a world without his rival here, and so, he refuses to even consider it. The water runs black with demonic blood. 

These wounds do not strictly _need_ to be disinfected- as according to their nature, he and Asmodeus both are immune to human ailments. But the idea of leaving the burns as they are makes something ill-feeling curl into his throat, and so he dabs disinfectant over the soles of his feet anyways. 

“Ouch,” says a voice. 

Raphael looks up. 

One of Asmodeus’ red eyes has slipped open, peering down at Raphael almost judgmentally. His toes twitch, and he hisses. “It stings,” the demon complains, swaying only slightly as he pushes himself up on his elbows to watch the angel work. 

“I should _hope_ it does.” Raphael scowls, punctuating his words with a particularly vicious swipe of cloth. Asmodeus’ flinch does nothing to soothe his anger. Mostly, it just makes him feel worse. “What did you_ do_? Just what did you think was going to happen? I-” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about-” 

“I can _smell _the hallowed ground on you. Don’t try and deny it.” He sits back on his knees, dropping the flannel into the washbowl with a slap. His skin is tinted grey from where he washed Asmodeus’ wounds, blood clinging to the beds of his nails, and he flicks water from his hands irritably. “I don’t know- I don’t _understand_, ‘n maybe if you can just explain- what could’ve _possibly_ possessed you to do a stupid thing like that. An absolutely- bloody brainless, half-baked, _idiot_ plot- what, was your brain out to lunch? Left the rest of you behind to fend for itself, did it? Fucking-” 

He takes a breath, pausing his tirade. Asmodeus interrupts before he can go on. 

“Raphael,” he says. “Look at me.” Something in the Prince’s voice gives him pause, and he obeys without a second thought. There’s something tender there, in those eyes, something almost _yielding_; and even with all that has changed it calls forth the distant memory of another existence. He reaches out, brushes the pad of his thumb under Raphael’s cheekbone, and the rest of his hand follows to frame his face in a delicate touch. _Delicate _has never been a word to describe Asmodeus, not even once, but this… it’s a very near thing. 

“Thank you, my dear,” he murmurs. 

Raphael swallows. “Don’t- don’t mention it,” he wheezes. 

Asmodeus drops his hand, leaning back again. Raphael takes in a steadying breath. “Yeah, that’s- that’s good. Don’t, er, try and- sit up, or walk about, or anything.” 

The rest of the work is completed in silence, nothing but Raphael’s breath between them. Asmodeus’ gaze stays on him the entire time, a little furrow between his brows. He’s a bit pale, or paler than normal at least, swaying slightly every few moments before he shakes himself and blinks to keep himself conscious. In all the years he’s known him, Raphael can only recall seeing Asmodeus sleep a handful of times, and if the way his eyes are drooping are any indication he’s about to witness it once more. 

He can’t very well leave Asmodeus to rest in the middle of his fashionable but admittedly not very comfortable living space. The couch doesn’t even have armrests, which was in style at the time, but not practical for this sort of thing. He’d be needing to get it reupholstered after this, anyways. No. Better to move him elsewhere. 

He eases an arm under his shoulders, the other coming up under his knees to brace him to his chest. 

“C’mon, c’mere,” he says, shrugging one of Asmodeus’ arms over his shoulder. “Up you get.” 

It’s an easy thing to hold him. The laws of physics don’t exactly apply to them, after all, and Raphael can lift anything he sets his mind to. He can lift Asmodeus because he_ believes _he can, and so he does. ‘Light as a feather, stiff as a board’, and all that. Still- Asmodeus is looking at him like he put the stars in the sky over it. Which, well, he _did_, but that’s not really the point. 

After a moment, the demon tucks his head under his chin, quiet and lax. It’s the blood loss. Must be. Raphael has never seen him like this, so soft and still. He carries him to his room, at a loss for what he should say. He’d expected they’d fill the silence with friendly banter, or Asmodeus teasing him about taking him to bed, but this silence is settling warm in his chest. 

He realizes, rather abruptly, this is the first and longest time Asmodeus has ever been in his flat. It’s a good flat, and serves him well- not so much a place to live as it is a place to stay during the day, a place to keep his plants and condensed milk and day drink alone when he isn’t at the hospital or the bookshop. It isn’t cluttered, or overly complex; the most adornment he has is the plants littering concrete, perhaps some part of him wishing to remember the Heaven that was. The plants and the statue, anyways. 

He can’t believe he let Asmodeus talk him into obtaining that thing. It’s nearly his turn to have it in the shop, come to think of it. 

His bedroom door is already open, flung aside when he’d been roused by the incessant pounding at his door. Raphael turns to the side as he enters, so as to not bump either of Asmodeus’ ends on the jamb. The last thing he needs tonight - today? This morning? He isn’t really certain at this point - is _more_ complaining. 

Despite his efforts, he gets more complaining anyway when he lays Asmodeus down and the demon finds himself removed from the calm warmth he’d been so taken by. He huffs, and puffs, rolling over as if he’s a _child- _only to hiss in pain as his feet brush together. Raphael snorts. 

“Best not waste energy being petty,” he says fondly. Asmodeus harrumphs, and then is silent. Raphael is rising, about to leave, when the demon’s next words stop him in his tracks. 

“This flat of yours is _dreadfully_ drafty.” As if to emphasize this fact, the temperature in the room drops by ten degrees and Asmodeus pointedly tugs his unbuttoned shirt tighter to himself. “Stay with me, won’t you?” 

Well, he can’t say no to a request like _that_. He shakes his head fondly, kicking off his slippers and laying in the space Asmodeus left beside him like a lost puzzle piece. As he runs a hand down the demon’s side, Asmodeus hisses and flinches away yet again. 

“...Dearheart, what was that?” 

“I may have gotten…” Asmodeus pauses, weighing his next words carefully. “A tad _personal_ with the priest. Consecrated, you know.” 

Oh, Christ. 

“You_ fucked the priest?_” 

“I said a _tad_, my dear. A_ tad._” He grumbles, curling into Raphael’s chest. “And it was really Father Isaac doing the - ahem - _lovemaking_.” 

Jesus God, _what_ is he going to do with this creature. Raphael doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He settles for letting Asmodeus fall asleep on his chest and following soon after. 

* * *

As soon as he is certain Asmodeus’ corporation has finally demanded a proper full night’s rest, Raphael extricates himself from their embrace and pads his way into the kitchen. 

There’s no way he is _ever _going to stop with this holy water obsession of his, evidently not even if threatened with severe bodily harm. Raphael truly doesn’t even want to hear the whole story. What he gleaned was enough. He had come so, _so uncomfortably close_ to pushing himself too far with the church. 

He’d rather Asmodeus get what he desires rather than find him destroyed one day. 

So, while the demon sleeps, Raphael hunts down an old soup thermos, now long-defunct and replaced by a newer and better model for work at the hospital. It’s a simple matte black, very stylish if he did say so himself. He fills it with water from the tap. A little underwhelming, but any water will do for this. 

He blesses the water, a very simple maneuver, and sets the lid back into place tightly with a seal. No leakage would be permitted from this, not even a drop. 

He leaves it on the counter and goes back to bed. 

* * *

When next he wakes, Asmodeus is _still _resting, and Raphael refuses to let the bubble of worry in his chest pop into a panic. He needs the rest. He needs to replenish his strength. He’s _fine_. 

Never mind how odd it is to see the demon in anything other than a light dozing catnap. 

He wanders his apartment for lack of anything better to do, restlessly misting his plants until the leaves droop with moisture. He sits at his table and stares at the thermos he had blessed as though it’s a ticking time bomb, or something that may yet grow fangs. It’s not too late. He could still dump it and pretend nothing had ever happened. 

But what kind of friend would he be if he lied again? 

He makes breakfast instead because he knows that if he is not greeted with a meal when he wakes, his current housemate _will _make a fuss. Asmodeus can get so terribly ill-tempered after a night like the last. And even the worst of those hadn’t ever been quite this bad. 

He has just slipped the quail’s egg toast onto a plate when he hears his name called cautiously from the other room, accompanied by the shatter of glass and snarled curse. Raphael nearly drops the plate entirely- it finds its way to the countertop with an afterthought miracle. 

“Asmodeus? _Asmodeus_-” 

The demon is clinging in vain to the bedside table, half-fallen. He’d knocked the lamp off of the table, and the jagged pieces of it form a menacing half-circle. Raphael is by his side in an instant. 

“You can’t- dearheart, you can’t _walk_ yet-” 

“I am a _Prince of Hell_,” Asmodeus says, voice shaking with frustration. “I can do as I _please._” 

“You most definitely can _not. _Doctor’s orders.” Raphael hoists him back into bed, his voice not allowing for even an inch of defiance. Asmodeus looks as though he’s been slapped, and like he rather wants it to happen again. Raphael rather prefers to not consider the implications of that at present and he softens his voice accordingly. “Even Princes of Hell have to listen to doctors, I think.” 

“Hn. With that hair? Quite.” Asmodeus’ displeasure is brief, however, for he turns his nose upwards with a curious sniff. “Did you make _food_?” 

“_Yes_,” Raphael says, defensive. “I can. I can cook. Mostly. And anyways, it’s toast, how can I mess up toast? S’easy, toast. S’got an egg in it. A quail one, at that. Was gonna surprise you.” 

Asmodeus stares at him. 

“_Surprise_ me?” he repeats, dumbfounded. 

Raphael rubs the back of his neck. “Well, yeah. Here, let me- lemme go get it.” 

As his second afterthought of the morning, Raphael leaves the thermos for now. He seats himself on the side of the bed, plate and orange juice - for that is something humans like in the mornings, is it not - on a platter for Asmodeus to peruse. The demon clasps his hands together. 

“Oh, isn’t this lovely? You’re better than the room service, my dear. And I don’t even need to tip you.” [3]

Raphael rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure, shut up.” 

There’s silence, then, except for the appreciative hums of Asmodeus eating his toast. He makes idle compliments, chatters along to himself, the earlier mishap seemingly forgotten. “I think I may be able to walk,” he says. “This just took me by surprise, is all. It’s already healing wonderfully, you know.” 

Raphael nods along, not really listening. Asmodeus looks up at him, fond crow’s feet leaping into existence at the corners of his eyes. “You’re staring again.” 

“Oh- right, yeah, sorry. Sorry ‘bout that. Distracted.” 

“Indeed,” Asmodeus intones, a delicate purse to his lips. He takes another bite of toast. 

Raphael inhales. 

“I have something for you,” he begins. 

Asmodeus’ eyes sparkle. “Is it more toast?” 

“It-” Raphael stops to laugh. “It’s not more toast, no.” 

“Pity.” 

“No, it’s…” If he took in any more air, his lungs would burst. He materializes the thermos into his hands from the table, cradling it as gently as he would his own heart torn from his chest and laid out for display. 

“Oh,” Asmodeus says, voice quite different now. 

“I don’t- I don’t know why you want this so _damned_ badly,” Raphael begins, “or why you need it, or even what you’ll use it for. But I can’t- I just- I _cannot _let you risk your life, Asmodeus. Not for this. Not for something… Something I could give you, just as easily.” 

“_Oh_,” says Asmodeus, again, more quietly. He reaches out, fingers brushing over Raphael’s own in a tender caress that makes his heart _ache _at what could have been. The demon wets his lips. “I suppose-” 

He cuts himself off before he can finish, but Raphael understands. It wouldn’t be best, a demon thanking an angel for weapons of mass destruction. He nods. “You’re welcome, Asmodeus.” 

“Well- er, yes.” Asmodeus holds the thermos close to his heart, then gingerly tucks it under his arm. Whatever softness that was there is gone now as he moves away. Slowly, he begins to get out of the bed, wincing at the tender pain, and Raphael follows after him in vain. 

“You shouldn’t- is there- can I get you anything, or-” 

“I think that’s quite alright, my dear. You’ve done enough for me.” Asmodeus pauses, standing on unsteady feet. He looks out the window, allowing some semblance of wistfulness to suffuse his features. “Maybe one day we might… go on a picnic. Dine at the Ritz. Wouldn’t that be something?” 

Asmodeus reaches for his coat, miracles some form of shoe for his feet. Raphael catches his arm, his grip gentle. The look Asmodeus gives him could only be described as a warning. 

“Stay,” he pleads, disregarding the caution tape. “We can do whatever you want today.” 

It’s more than just an invitation to hang around, and they both know it. It’s an invitation to spend every morning like this. Wake up next to each other, make breakfast, kiss over the kitchen table. To be_ together._

Forever. For as long as he’s willing to stay. 

The warning is broken. The caution tape is torn down in one swift, reckless slash. They stand before each other, all pretense abandoned. 

And Asmodeus backs away. 

“Oh, Raphael.” Asmodeus’ lips twitch into a sad smile, reaching to cup the angel’s cheek. “You go too fast for me, my dear.” 

Oh. 

Asmodeus is limping out the door before Raphael can even respond. The invitation to a_ future_ crumbles in the chasm between them, and he’s helpless to stop it. With the slam of his own door, the walls he’d thought they’d so carefully brought down receive express notification of their imminent rebuilding as soon as the permit clears. 

_Oh_. So it’s like that, then. 

His hand flutters uselessly down to his side, fingers still curled slightly where he’d held onto Asmodeus’ arm. The former point of contact still burns, burns like consecrated ground burns a demon, burns like a _Fall_, one he’s not sure he’ll be recovering from any time soon. 

Those loose fingers curl further into a fist, nails biting into the meat of his palm with a sharp sting. 

He’s been here before, he realizes, a million and one times, and he wonders when he’d convinced himself things had changed. Asmodeus always leaves. That’s how this _works_, between them. There’s no lazy mornings or shared days, nothing left of the gentle love they’d shared Before. 

Feeling rather like someone had taken a newly forged sword straight to his chest, Raphael sits heavily on the bed. He slides a hand through his hair with a small sigh. 

With luck, the shame won’t linger too long, this time. 

* * *

**-1968-1979 AD-**

The seventies are largely a mistake that pass by with little fanfare, and Asmodeus and Raphael both agree to never speak of them again after the disaster that is _Raphael’s facial hair. _It’s for the best, really. 

Asmodeus claims the whole concept of Woodstock is _his_ idea, of course. He isn’t lying, and he’s immeasurably pleased with the messy aftermath. 

One topic they also very delicately do not breach is that of the _holy water debacle._ It’s simply best to not dredge up not-so-old memories. Raphael’s ‘grudge’ remains, despite how Asmodeus attempts to bring him out of it. It was nothing, really. A little snafu. A misunderstanding, of themselves and their _alliance. _That’s all. 

So it shouldn’t sting so much when Raphael begs off their usual meetings. 

* * *

**-London, England. 11:20PM, 31st December, 1979 AD-**

Raphael has received a..._ request_. More of a prayer, really. One last New Year’s blessing, or another; they just want to last the night, see the new decade which they’d heard was going to be a good one. Truly, five brain tumors seems a _bit _much[4]. 

It’s with a sigh and a glance to the glass of wine to his left that he decides to answer it. Prayers aren’t all that uncommon, though they’ve taken a steady decline through the years, along with his popularity [5]. He takes to answering a handful every year, though the prayers tend to be for minor ills that don’t need his intervention. He’s far more useful at the hospital, where he’s been working for the past decade with the Virtues as his senior nurse staff. Still, there’s the occasional plight that touches his heart. And really, how often does he get a request like _this_? 

Again, five brain tumors. Gabriel didn’t need to know - Raphael is the one who heads Miracles, after all. And what’s one, _tiny _miracle? It’s just a few hours, nothing so major as _healing _the poor thing. 

But as he follows the vague sort of _sense_ that leads him where he needs to be, he begins to wonder if, perhaps, there may have been some error. Or if, _perhaps,_ he’s been had. 

The suspicion lingers and then grows into exhausted realization as his Bentley pulls up and rolls to a stop in front of what looks suspiciously like the new nightclub Asmodeus has been going on about for the last few weeks. Five fucking brain tumors. Of course. Of _course_. He should’ve suspected- although, in all the years he’s known Asmodeus, he’s never resorted to _prayer_. He wonders if the demon was feeling particularly cheeky, considering the locale. A nightclub called Heaven isn’t exactly subtle, but then again, neither is Asmodeus. 

As he waits outside in his idling Bentley with the sort of long-suffering sigh borne of one who is unfortunately quite used to being strung along, an open space_ miraculously _opens up on the street within optimal walking distance to the club. He’s fairly certain he didn’t do that. He has _definitely _been had. For reasons that are beyond him, Raphael pulls into the space when by all rights he should be turning around and going home to relax with - well, actually, probably a depressing evening of drinking alone on New Year’s Eve. Alright. Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine. So he has precious little social life that isn’t his Virtues or his hereditary enemy with benefits. He’s a doctor, and an Archangel to boot. He doesn’t have time for anything else, that’s all. He_ can_ have time, if he wants to, but he doesn’t usually. Leave him be about it, alright [6]. 

And anyways, it certainly seems like _Asmodeus _wants him to. 

He slams the Bentley’s driver-side door with probably more force than is necessary and makes his way inside. 

He’s not unfamiliar with such places - after all, one doesn’t spend as much time as he does around the Prince of Lust without learning a thing or two and being dragged to various establishments of dubious repute. And it isn’t as if he, himself, never once sought out a place to have fun. He’s an angel, not _Amish_. Still, it’s been a while. He doesn’t make a habit of it, mostly because he’s got other things to worry about. That, and - being an angel - sometimes people seem to use that sixth sense of theirs to latch onto his side and never leave. Not only is it sad, but it’s also _really fucking irritating_. 

The inside of the club is dimly lit and stinks of sweat, cigarette smoke, and a very fine patina of sin - no doubt Asmodeus’ doing. The crush of bodies shifts and bobs to the beat of a _strikingly_ familiar song. _‘Look into his angel eyes, you’ll think you’re in paradise?’_ _Really?_ In a night club called Heaven, the moment an angel sets foot inside? 

Smug bastard. Raphael doesn’t need to see him to know Asmodeus is smirking, somewhere. And yet, somehow, it’s almost flattering. 

He makes his way in deeper, seeking his demon in the crowd, grimacing as he passes some clientele slightly too far gone. He allows just the barest brush of his hand to heal the worst of it. Maybe a few of them will see the new year, after all. 

Now to find Asmodeus. He won’t be far. And find him, Raphael does, though it takes him a moment for it to click that it really _is _him. Asmodeus is leaned against the bar, one heeled foot lifted while he gestures towards the bartender with a lascivious grin and the hand not currently occupied by a cigarette. The moment he spots Raphael, that grin widens. Some part of Raphael has stopped functioning somewhere along the way, mostly due to what the demon is _wearing_. His curls are piled high atop his head- and since when has he got that much hair at _all?_ The beard has made a return, neatly trimmed and well kept, complemented by the signs of age he’s let his corporation show after several centuries spent in a fresh face [7].His makeup is surprisingly minimal, and unsurprisingly flawless. He’s wearing fishnets, dramatic bastard that he is, and his dress is _black_; some shiny sheer material or another, not a color he can often be found in though it’s quite flattering, to say the least. He looks - _breathtaking_ is a word that could be used. _Tempting_ is another. Surely that’s why he’s here. 

Raphael swallows, willing himself to move closer. As he draws near, Asmodeus takes a seat, propping his foot up on the chair in front of him. That smooth fabric shifts tantalizingly with his movement, lifting just enough to reveal far too much any stranger should see - but Raphael is no stranger, and his eyes catch more than just a taste of lace underthings. 

Asmodeus grins, reaching a hand out to him. Horrid creature. Raphael fixes a scowl onto his face. 

“What’s wrong, my dear? Do you not like the music? I picked it for you,” the demon begins, a purr rising from his breast. “I _know _you like this one. Don’t quite see the appeal, myself.” 

He removes his foot, and Raphael sits in the now unoccupied seat. “A _prayer? Really,_ dearheart? Y’couldn’t’ve, I dunno, _called_? Made me come all th’bloody- I just got off_ work_.” 

“Took your sweet time, too,” Asmodeus sniffs, eyeing Raphael’s scrubs. “Our celestial tax dollars at work. And anyways, would you have _answered _if I called? You love that new _answering contraption_ of yours terribly.” 

Raphael very carefully ducks the other part of that question, because no, he wouldn’t have answered. “S’not new any more, Asmodeus.” 

“Pah. Still. At any rate, it’s a _new year_, my dear boy. Or about to be. You should be celebrating, not working. Where are your darling Virtues?” 

He makes a face, already knowing his answer will be damning. “Out.” 

“See.” Asmodeus didn’t have to look so smug. “Even _they _get it, awful sticklers that they are. Except for that Diligence, ironically. You know, if I asked, I am fairly certain he would-” 

“-_Enough_ about Diligence,” Raphael interrupts. He doesn’t need to be reminded of the Virtue’s crush. “Why am I_ here_, Asmodeus?” 

“Easy, dearest.” The bartender brings then both a drink, and Asmodeus smiles serenely. “Why find a receptive stranger to ring in the new year with, when I could have a friend?” 

Raphael chokes on the drink he most definitely didn’t order but was tailored to his tastes anyways. 

“Are you _high_?” He sputters. 

Asmodeus just laughs. 

* * *

The regular patrons of the night club - if they could even be called_ regular,_ seeing as it had been open for less than a month - were already familiar with Asmodeus, in the way that one would be when seeing the same ‘stranger whose name you don’t know but you’re pretty sure pleasured you under a table while you were very, very drunk’ every weekend. It’s a very friendly, if awkward, sort of familiarity. As the demon weaves them both through the crowd Raphael is introduced to a whole variety of interesting people. A number of them paw at him to jeers relating to his profession - that’ll be the fault of the scrubs, then - and others cling to his side wrongfully expecting a _kind and listening ear _or a _shoulder to cry on. _He pries these individuals off with no small amount of frustration. 

Through it all Asmodeus’ hand remains tight in his own, palm soft and velvety against his own clammy flesh, and his words ring through Raphael’s head. _When I could have a friend. Friend. Friend._

“There’s a sort of- er, medical conference, coming up,” he blurts, suddenly. “Was thinking ’bout going. Maybe making a weekend of it.” 

Asmodeus glances at him appraisingly from their new shared spot in a corner. There’s a glitter of interest in his eye [8]. “Oh?” 

“Yeah, few months out. Bookin’ hotel room now, though, s’easier.” Raphael shifts. Why he’s telling the demon all of this, he’ll never know. “S’about technology and whatnot. In Edinburgh, I think.” 

“Well that sounds just_ lovely, _my dear.” Asmodeus sets his chin in his hands. “I do think I shall join you.” 

Before Raphael can argue, they’re interrupted by the loud _screech _of microphone feedback, making everyone groan and shout a few obscenities. The noise dies down, the speaker tapping at the microphone. “Sorry- sorry! Right, ladies’n’gentlepeople, that’s two minutes on the clock! So find that sorry lookin’ lad you been eyein’ all night and turn that frog prince into a _queen_!” 

Asmodeus scoffs, then nudges Raphael. “Shall we, then, _your majesty?_” 

Raphael tosses his head back and all but cackles. “Oh,_ really, I’m _the queen? You seen how you’re dressed?” 

All around are the whoops and cheers- and then, over all, one voice shouted grows into more and more until a_ song_ bursts forth, messy and uneven but a song nonetheless, the discordant strains of a hymn familiar to almost all though if asked the specifics of what it is they’re singing barely a soul could tell you. The song is known to young and old alike and most enthusiastically sung by people who’ve had a bit too much to drink, so confident in their inebriated state that they know the lyrics by heart. 

_No one_ sings Auld Lang Syne like a club full of queers in various states of sobriety. It’s quite a breathtaking spectacle to behold, actually. 

As usual, Raphael and Asmodeus find themselves rather on the outside of this- _this_, keeping their careful distance. Not that they mind it. In fact, it’s directly the opposite. From here they get to truly appreciate the sight of humanity being wholly, messily, unabashedly _themselves, _singing a hymn to bring in a new year with hopes of joy and peace. A tradition that hasn’t been around long, in the grand scheme of things, but is still sung with the passion of something dear. How far the humans have come… And how far they have to get before the end. This club is a far cry from the Garden. Would Eve and Adam be proud to see them, now? 

Probably not, actually, given the state these patrons are in, but it’s the thought that counts really. 

As they watch, they both feel a sort of warmth unfurl in their chests, though neither are aware the other is feeling the same. Raphael, after a moment of hesitation, stretches his arm across the backs of their seating, and Asmodeus shifts closer into his touch without even a thought. 

It’s funny, how much two minutes can feel like an eternity or like a standstill, yet also nothing more than an iota, one grain sand amidst the great expanse of the universe’s hourglass. If the Powers That Be choose to lengthen these two minutes, just the once and only slightly, well. Who can say? Who would know? Asmodeus is too busy to notice, focusing on the warm heat of Raphael against his side and the bright forest wing suddenly draped over his shoulders in their own private plane of existence like nothing is amiss at all. Like that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be- how it’s always _been_. 

Really, he supposes, it is. 

As the last lyrics ring out, the following countdown comes and goes in the blink of an eye and the humans erupt in a raucous chorus of drunken, jubilant hoots and shrieks. Outside, the pop of fireworks are a backdrop to the embraces around them- quite literally going off as lips meet, though most of them are less than setting off sparks in their clumsy haste. 

Asmodeus, already _achingly _close, looks up at Raphael and notes the curve of his angel’s thin lips, the knife’s edge of his cheekbones. This near to him he can hear the whisper of his lashes, very nearly drown in the molten gold of his eyes - although, as he looks, he can note just the barest speck of bronze there. Or is that silver? Steel? Something metallic, _imperfect_, at any rate, adding depth and brilliance to the divine coloration that was there already. 

The crow’s feet at the corners of those gorgeous, perfectly imperfect eyes crinkle in a smile. 

It isn’t known, who moves first. When there was already so little space between them to start with, it’s almost natural to close it. Raphael leans, Asmodeus meets him, and it’s- nothing extravagant. It’s small. It’s chaste. A sweet slide of lips accompanied by a quiet hum; a deceptively simple thing really, belying so much more unsaid between them. 

As quickly as the moment arrives, it’s gone again, though there’s still the barest whisper of it in the air lingering between them as Raphael pulls away. Asmodeus is left _wanting_. 

Raphael clears his throat, sniffs, and leans out of his space. A return to normalcy. Their moment ended. “So, I’ll book two rooms, then?” He continues the conversation as if nothing had happened, looking anywhere but at Asmodeus. 

Asmodeus’ head tilts, and he smiles beatifically, steadily ignoring the hummingbird beat of his heart. “I think_ one_ will suffice, don’t you?” 

* * *

**-Edinburgh, Scotland, 1980 AD-**

Gone are the days when all getting a nice room took was a bit of imagination and the assumption that one would appear, which had made things much easier. These days, it takes quite a bit more _cajoling_. And _cajoled _Raphael had, apparently. 

Asmodeus is standing some ways away, studying his nails as Raphael talks to the concierge. He’s adamantly refused to carry any of their bags, batting his lashes at the angel until he’d given up and carried their luggage himself. It’s rather amusing, at the moment, watching him struggle to keep the bags from slipping down his shoulders while he digs around for his wallet. He flashes the concierge his ID, cursing as it causes Asmodeus’ bag to slide all the way down to his wrist. 

“Shit- sorry, my- _him_, he’s a bit of a-” Whatever he’s about to say, he apparently thinks better of it at the _look _Asmodeus shoots him. He huffs, shifting the bag again to a more secure position. “Right, see, Raphael Bliant. That’s me, yep.” 

“Of course, sir. Let me look up your reservation…” 

Asmodeus tunes them out, looking around the lobby. People are milling about, mostly upper-class and most certainly medical professionals here for the conference. It’s an elegant modern design, which means Asmodeus dislikes it on principle. He’s always thought trends go by far too fast for him to keep up with, though he’s sure it’s to Raphael’s taste. His flat has always been a terribly modern thing and he can see why the angel chose this hotel, although he’s fairly certain his flat doesn’t have a fireplace or a _spa_. 

Although he’s not fond of the decor, he has to say it’s an improvement on many of the establishments they’ve found themselves in over the centuries since Rome. Here they strive for the lap of luxury, as opposed to a place to simply weather the night. He even spies a table with deserts and lemon water. 

“Alright, we’re in room 517,” comes the distracted voice of his angel, who’s currently looking down at their keycards with a sort of frown. “Never used one of these before, how’s it meant to open the door?” he’s mumbling, almost to himself, handing one of the cards to Asmodeus to inspect. 

“Mm. When _was _the last time we stayed together, anyhow?” 

Raphael looks up, squinting a bit in thought. “Ah, sometime in the 50s, probably.” He pauses. “1850s, that is. Or was it the 30s?” 

“Well, either way, it’s been _entirely _too long, my dear.” He gives Raphael a winning smile, who merely gives him a suspicious once over. Not that they haven’t- well, been _together_ since their little reunion at the Devil’s Bridge, but lately it’s been a bit of what the humans would call ‘a dry spell’. Which is, in truth, why he’d jumped at the chance to tag along to this… whatever it is. He’s got some idea of what it might entail and the technology aspect does interest him, but he’s mostly interested in getting the angel alone. A bit of wooing might be in order, but he’s willing to win him over again after that disaster with the holy water heist. 

As they make their way to the elevator, the first part of his plan begins to unfold. Raphael looks at the floor numbers, then back down at the keycard in his hand. “The top floor? I didn’t book the top floor.” He sounds baffled, but shakes his head, pressing the button anyway. “Must’ve been some kind of mix-up. Y’know, I’ve always thought humans rather _brilliant_. They’ve got these computers now- or, well, guess they’ve had ‘em a while, but. Makes everything so much easier- mostly. Probably easy to get things all-” he waves his hand, indicating the sort of mess that comes with a room switch. 

Asmodeus gives a little hum of acknowledgement, biting down the grin that threatens to sneak through. The rest of the ride goes by in relative silence, Raphael humming some god-awful bebop under his breath while Asmodeus taps his fingers against his leg. 

It becomes apparent, very quickly, that this is not the floor they want. At least, it does to Raphael. Asmodeus couldn’t be more pleased if he tried. In fact he imagines he rather looks like the cat that caught the canary. The smug feeling only grows as Raphael’s distress mounts. 

Raphael fumbles with the keycard, swapping bags around and mumbling under his breath. “Can’t be right-” He curses as he drops the keycard. “If you’d _help-_” 

“Oh, my dear boy, why would I_ ever_ do that? Besides, I’ve just gotten my nails done, and I’d hate to ruin them.” Asmodeus widens his eyes in a picture of innocence, hand to his chest, but stoops to take Raphael’s card regardless as the angel grumbles some more. The door opens under his touch with a soft click, surprising everyone involved.[9]

“What did you even bloody put in here, _cinderblocks_?” Raphael grouses, bustling through the door and dropping the bags on the couch with a huff of breath. The moment he straightens his aching back, he freezes. Asmodeus waits, ever so patiently, for the realization to settle in. 

This is not the room Raphael booked. 

“This is _not _the room I booked,” Raphael says. 

“Isn’t it? Hm. Odd.” Asmodeus settles comfortably on the edge of a plush seat. “What a clerical error to make. What was it you were just saying about computers, dear?” He pats the seat next to him. “Here, why don’t you sit down? Your back must be _killing _you.” 

If Raphael were the murdering type, the look alone he gives Asmodeus would put him down quite a bit lower than six feet under. “A _clerical error_? This- I can’t- I can’t _afford _this, and I know _you _definitely can’t. When was the last time you even _sold _a book?” 

“Oh, but we_ can _afford it, dearest. Cut a deal, you see. It was nothing a little bit of _persuasion _couldn’t manage.” He says_ persuasion _like he means _demonic power, _idly checking his manicure. If this polish doesn’t hold up this week, his manicurist_ will_ hear about it. Likely in the form of some sort of curse or hex. She’s a wonderful woman, really, but it just won’t do to let it slide. 

All her bread molding, her milk souring, and being unable to find the right change in her purse when she needs it most seems more than adequate. He’s not been pushed into drying up her sex life entirely. 

Yet. 

Raphael is looking at him like he’s grown another head. “What were you _thinking_?” 

“Mostly about the bathtub,” Asmodeus says demurely. “It has _jets_. Would you like to test them out?” 

Even his patented _wiggle _isn’t enough to smooth Raphael’s rumpled feathers. He puts extra rocking into it and everything. It’s adorable, if he does say so himself. Worked extra hard to perfect it. 

Raphael scowls at him. Oh, well. Can’t win ‘em all, as they say. 

“Relax, Raphael,” he sighs, finally. “It’s _nothing_ to be worried about. Nothing that could be traced back to you, or - more importantly - to _me_. Like the old days. I know you are always _looking out_ for us; let me, just this once. Lest you make an absolute mess of things. _Again_.” 

He rises from his seat, brushing past Raphael to pull back the curtains. “There’s even a view of the castle.” 

After a moment’s deliberation, Raphael seems to make up his mind, coming to stand next to Asmodeus. His hands slide to his pockets, peering out. “It is quite the view,” he admits. The sun catches his eyes at just the right angle behind his glasses [10] turning them luminous and revealing the depths within. 

“It is,” Asmodeus agrees, voice soft. He is not looking at the castle, not even a bit. 

Raphael shrugs out of his fashionably ill-fitting blazer and sets his terrible hat on the coffee table, and the moment has passed. Asmodeus pushes off from his languid lean against the windowsill to make his way back to the couch. It’s been a terribly long trip and his feet hurt something awful. 

His life is just so _hard_. Being himself is truly just grueling. 

His feet now up on the cushions, he props his chin on his hand to watch Raphael set about exploring the suite- rambling as he goes. It’s terribly endearing, Asmodeus thinks privately. 

“We can explore the event space when we get down there tomorrow,” his angel is saying, poking his head back into the living room every now and again. “There’s this panel I want to attend at eleven, which should give us ample time to meet up with other practitioners and also eat some food, and-” 

Asmodeus should be listening, probably, but all he can think about is the way Raphael moves through space in a way that no human shape should be able to manage. It’s a fluid movement, all those sharp mis-matched edges softening and fitting together for this with ease. And here he thought_ he_ was supposed to be the tempter of the two. 

He settles back into his cushions, content in knowing that whether he listens or not, Raphael will continue to chatter away. 

In a way, it’s almost comforting in its familiarity. 

He’s just about dozed off when a startled _squawk_ brings him back. 

“Oh,” he says, mostly to himself. “He found the bed.” 

* * *

The bed is- well, the Bed of beds. Raphael is still staring at it when Asmodeus wanders in. 

“I booked a room with_ twins_,” the angel says. “_Twins._” 

Asmodeus plucks up a delicate rose petal and pinches it between thumb and forefinger. “Please, dear, that’s hardly enough room for two grown celestial beings. And besides, one of them was _lumpy_.” 

Maybe the rose petals were a bit much. Raphael is shaking his head, likely now realizing why he’d got such _looks _from the concierge. 

“Twins,” he repeats, weakly. 

* * *

In the morning, Raphael wakes to the smell of something _delicious_. He’s more neutral on the matter of eating, but the smell is good enough to set his stomach rumbling in a hunger he can’t feel. He stretches his limbs, his joints cracking a bit as he yawns. 

Despite the rose petals and the painfully obvious ploy to get them sharing a bed, they hadn’t actually slept together- not like that, at least. There’d been _sleeping_, for one, which is a rarity in of itself. He’s pretty sure Asmodeus spent at least ninety percent of the night reading, for every time Raphael rolled over he was there in the dark with a little book light- but there’s simply something about him with his little reading glasses and paunch, like some kind of Satanic librarian, that Raphael didn’t have the heart to disturb him. 

Just then, as if summoned, Asmodeus bustles in wearing one of his ridiculous furry robes. “Oh, you’re awake. It’s about time- the food is getting cold.” 

It is, in fact, not getting cold. Raphael knows that if there is one thing that Asmodeus will not abide by - aside from mild physical discomfort - it’s_ cold food_. Raphael doesn’t call him on it, though. For once, breakfast actually sounds rather nice. “I can’t believe you packed that,” he says, making a lazy gesture towards the god awful fuzzy… _thing _instead, sitting up. 

“It’s_ cozy_,” Asmodeus counters with the slightest pout. He gathers up the material in his hands defensively. “Come and eat. There’s coffee in it for you.” 

Ah, but he truly does know all Raphael’s weakest points. 

“Well,” he says, with a yawn, “so long as there’s coffee involved.” 

* * *

The food isn’t terrible, either. 

* * *

They’re late when they finally make their way down to the ground floor, and that really throws a wrench in Raphael’s plans for the day. He completely missed the speaker he’d wanted to sit in on at nine-thirty, and it would have been _rude_ to join late. Official announcement of smallpox having been eradicated is nice, though. The new portable insulin pump is much more convenient than the previous models, but Raphael is of the opinion that it really just makes things more of a hassle in the long run. 

The talk at eleven he’d wanted so direly to get to was on the potential of _artificial skin_ \- something still currently under study but due to be potentially put into testing within a year or so. Fascinating stuff. Much better than the leeches. The humans could be so _imaginative_ when it came to these things, when they put their minds together to create something like- well. Skin. If only it would happen more often, that ‘putting minds together’ thing. 

During lunch he sees a few of the familiar faces of acquaintances - which Asmodeus enjoys introducing himself to_ immensely_ \- and a few other faces that he’d rather prefer _not_ to see but ends up seeing _anyways_, brought together by some mysterious turn of the universe or, indeed, the machinations of a truly_ ineffable_ Mother. 

In a word, he’s_ irritated._

“That _bastard_,” he hisses in Asmodeus’ direction. “I should have _known_ he’d show up here.” 

Asmodeus looks up from his slice of German chocolate cake, affronted. “You_ invited _me.” 

“Not _you_,” Raphael spits, practically venomous. His eyes are narrowed as he leans in close to the demon. “_Him_.” 

He nods in the man’s general vicinity, like any grander gesture would give away the game and draw far more notice than what he has energy for, and watches Asmodeus squint to find him. The man is noticeably well-dressed, watch alone costing more money than either of them had seen in one place in their lifetimes. His skin is ‘tanned’ from his last week in the Bahamas and the straight white cisgender male insolence practically _bleeds_ from his pores. Raphael knows this, because he knows _him_. 

He’s instantly dislikable, and instantly disliked by any sensible person that meets him. 

“I see,” Asmodeus says. Raphael is already nodding furiously. 

“He’s a- well, he’s _American_, for one.” Asmodeus winces in sympathy. “He’s- his practice is _awful, _the way he treats his patients is abysmal and he’s ridiculously overpriced. Says it’s ‘smart business’.” Raphael does his best to do the air quotes to go along with it, but he’s impeded by the styrofoam cup of apple juice clutched in one hand. He does, at best, manage an awkward finger wave. “Met ‘im at a conference a couple years ago, back when I was doing that one presentation on that- that _thing,_ you remember- And he wouldn’t _shut up_. It was all, ‘Well, actually,’ and, ‘You know, that’s actually a common misconception,’ when ‘s not even his _field_. And next thing you know, he’s showin’ up at _my _hospital like he owns the place. The temporary replacement for our head of Oncology while she went on maternity. She’s lovely, by the way, got me those biscuits for Hanukkah you liked- Anyway, turns out, he’s a _real _bastard. Wouldn’t treat this man that came in, and when he _did_, ‘cause I said he had to, he wouldn’t let his bloke in after the procedure. _‘Family only,’_ he said. Fuckin’.” Raphael strangles the air one-handedly. “Fuckin’ _Henries_. Never met a good Henry.” 

Raphael stops to take a breath. Asmodeus hums. 

“I think,” he says, pushing back from the table, “that I am going to find myself another piece of that delicious cake. Would you like anything, love?” 

Raphael chokes on his apple juice. 

“I thought not,” Asmodeus finishes, patting his hand. “I’ll be back.” 

_Love_. 

Whatever thoughts he’d had fly out the window, leaving him to watch Asmodeus wind through the crowd with the expression of a man who has just been called love for the _very first time_ by his hereditary enemy with benefits of some one-thousand, nine hundred and forty years (give or take) and isn't _quite _sure what to make of it. 

By the time he comes back to himself (roughly five minutes after losing sight of Asmodeus and repeating the endearment in his head for the entirety of those five minutes), he realizes he can’t see the demon anywhere near the dessert cart. He can’t see the demon anywhere, in fact. 

In fact, when he _can _see the demon, he’s speaking to the _one single person_ in this _entire hotel _that Raphael wishes he wouldn’t. He nearly groans aloud. _Backstabbing bastard_. If he knows Asmodeus, and he’s fairly certain he does, he’s at least a third of the way to making a scene. Raphael’s never going to be allowed back, after this. He’s finished. May as well start packing his bags now. 

In some likely-futile attempt to get there before Asmodeus finishes that scene, he hurries across the room. As he approaches, their voices become clearer. He almost wishes they hadn’t. 

“Oh, what a coincidence, there’s my darling wife now,” Asmodeus is saying, looking directly at him with an outstretched hand and gleaming smile. 

* * *

Asmodeus hadn’t necessarily _planned _on this. It was simply the natural progression of events, and who was he to argue with the_ ineffability_? He merely saw his chance and took it. Any non-infernal enemy of Raphael’s is an enemy of his own, as far as he’s considered. 

So he does, indeed, get himself another slice of that perfectly _sinful _cake (Belphegor would be so pleased), and finds himself face to face with this dubious doctor. 

“Gosh,” the man says. “Another slice of cake, huh? That German chocolate stuff, that’s a real artery-clogger. A moment on the lips, right bud?” 

The cretin has the absolute audacity to _slap him on the shoulder_. Asmodeus _despises him_. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” he sniffs, brushing off his hand. The man reminds him strikingly of Raphael’s _brother, _and not in a good way. The Heavenly one, not Hellish. Even Satan has his redeeming qualities. 

Although, could _anyone _be reminded of Gabriel in a good way? 

“Bah, of course. You’re probably not even here for the conference, are you? Probably no idea what’s going on, am I right?” He laughs good naturedly, in the sort of snide-smug way that suggests anything but. 

“You’re wrong, in fact, but somehow I doubt-” 

The man cuts him off, merely proving the point Asmodeus had been about to make. 

“You’re not missing out on much, anyways. Been a total dud, not even anything _remotely _interesting. Least not at the conference.” He gets this gleam in his eye and Asmodeus _really_ doesn’t want to know where he’s going with this, though he has the suspicion he’s going to find out anyway. Such are Americans. “Have you _seen _the girls around here?” He whistles, shaking his head with a grin. “Scottish babes, I’m telling you. Real fighty girls. I mean, the wife stayed home for this one, just gives me more time for fun. _You _must know how it is. It’s so- _boring_, after a while.” 

“I don’t know, actually,” Asmodeus says dryly, silently willing the man’s nethers to never work again if they know what’s good for them. “Never had much of an eye for ‘babes.’ My own wife is here with me, in fact, and I’d say we do a rather good job of keeping things _interesting_.” 

This despicable creature laughs, a rowdy jeer. “Ah, loyally married, eh? The ol’ ball and chain dragging you around?” 

“Mm. Something like that.” Asmodeus looks up, and _grins_. “Oh, what a coincidence. There’s my darling wife now.” 

It’s not like he_ intended_ this exchange to happen the way it did. The pieces merely fell into place in an amusing domino effect. He puts his arm out for Raphael, revelling in the high flush to his cheeks and the pointed tips of his ears, and decides to play a little while longer. 

He looks back at his new “friend,” who looks a little green around the gills at the sight of Raphael and the_ implications_ of what Asmodeus has just said. 

His manticore smile widens. “Oh, it’s a bit of a joke between us, you see. For some reason, whenever I say I’m married, people always assume it’s to a _woman_.” 

The man clears his throat, which only gives Asmodeus more of an opportunity. “Yes, we just had a lovely ceremony last year, didn’t we, dearest?” Beside him, pressed against Asmodeus’ side by his arm around his waist, Raphael makes a sound like he’s been shot. “Just among family, you understand. Very informal. It was beautiful, and we’re_ very _happy. In fact, since you two seem to know each other so well already, perhaps we might have you and_ your _wife over for dinner some time? We could even play a game- anything but charades. Awful game, isn’t it?” He tilts his head, his smile carnivorous. “You seem to like games, don’t you, Doctor Buckley? You certainly enjoy playing games with that poor secretary of yours. Does she know you plan on firing her?” 

Buckley is beginning to back away. “How the hell-” 

“Oh, how the Hell indeed. You had better run far and run fast, little man,” Asmodeus coos, hoisting his plate of cake with a little nod towards the exit. “Buy your wife something nice, hm? It may soften her burgeoning hatred. She might just wait a _year _to leave you instead of a month.” 

Asmodeus turns just slightly to kiss Raphael’s stunned cheek and draw him back to their table. That had been _entirely _too much fun. 

He even pulls out his angel’s seat for him. 

* * *

_What._

Asmodeus cheerily sets into demolishing his cake beside him, and all Raphael can think is- well. It can’t really be put into words- but if it _could_, it’d be something along the lines of the _screech _of one of those emergency alerts that’ll come on over the television. 

_What_? 

“You’re staring, my dear,” says the demon idly, sparing him a glance. His eyes are practically dancing and Raphael feels a swoop in his stomach that’s been becoming ever familiar to him in the past few minutes. 

“I-” he clears his throat, trying to find his voice. “What the hell was all that?” He means it to come out demanding, maybe chastising, but instead he just sounds… pathetically _lovesick_. 

Asmodeus gives the slightest shrug of his shoulder, scraping up the crumbs of his cake. “I saw an opportunity to give that awful man a good seeing to. He won’t go about spouting off inane commentary on the dietary habits of complete strangers anymore after _that_.” 

“So- you decided to pretend we’re- we’re _married_, over _cake_?” 

“Precisely.” 

And with that, Asmodeus gives a happy little wiggle and licks his fork clean. 

* * *

Hotel beds were not meant for this sort of treatment, and theirs has practically fallen apart by the time they’ve finished. 

Asmodeus is laughing as Raphael miracles it back together. 

“What will this report look like, my dearest?” 

“Hm.” Raphael flops back into the pillows, rolling to curl close against Asmodeus’ side. “‘Human hotel bed destroyed by… demonic efforts. Thwarting attempted, expected, and unfortunately intercepted.’ Alternatively, ‘broke the bed because my demon fucked me into next Thursday.’” 

“Mm, they’ll add another title. ‘The Savior of Bedding.’ The things they’d say- may even get a commendation.” 

“I’d fucking_ better._” 

There’s a lull in the banter, a companionable silence descending like the end-curtains of a show. As he turns to watch Asmodeus shift, feeling his hand pressed against the bare skin of his side, Raphael’s mind turns unbidden to the last conversation they’d had in regards to this arrangement of theirs. He feels a nervous flutter in his chest, threatening to nest and grow and infest, turning the tentative happiness he feels into a bitter thing. 

Before he can stop himself, he’s opening his mouth. “...you sure about this? Last time, you said-” 

Asmodeus interrupts him with a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, though there’s the slightest tightness around his eyes. “Hush, my Raphael. No need to overcomplicate things.” 

Well, he’ll have to take what he can get. 

* * *

With such an interesting start to their week away, Raphael can only hope the rest of this trip will be _boring_. 

He continues to see Henry Buckley, but the man keeps his distance with a sour expression whenever he spots Asmodeus, and that is enough for Raphael to be pleased with. The conference itself is, of course, fascinating; an excellent experience and opportunity to explore other aspects to the medical community that he, himself, cannot always indulge in. He takes notes. He takes _many _notes. He debates with Asmodeus on the finer points of some mechanical advancements over breakfast, which was usually ordered in. 

All in all, it’s a worthwhile trip. When was the last time he let himself travel for fun? Berlin? And that wasn’t even for fun, it was because his Virtues _made _him. 

Asmodeus hasn’t forgotten that he had called Raphael his _darling wife_, and Raphael hasn’t forgotten what it felt like. It was teasing, he knows - a joke, something to knock his earthly nemesis off-kilter, nothing more than Asmodeus being_ Asmodeus_. Nothing to read into. Nothing that _should _be read into. And yet, his mind comes back to it, time and time again. 

Like now, over breakfast, with Asmodeus opening his mouth to speak. 

“I was thinking,” the demon begins tentatively, pushing eggs around his plate. Raphael hums. 

“That’s dangerous.” 

“I was _thinking_,” Asmodeus repeats, resolutely ignoring the interruption, “about our mishap with your nemesis.” 

“Wh- he’s- he’s not- my _nemesis_,” Raphael sputters. “He’s a _human_. If anyone’s my nemesis, it’s _you_. Y’know, technically. In the- grand scheme of things.” 

“Oh_,_ _Raphael_,” Asmodeus trills, “I had no idea you thought so highly of me.” 

Raphael frowns as Asmodeus laughs. 

“_My point_ _is_, your _competition_ thinks we’re wedded, and-” 

Raphael raises his hand, interjecting again. “Whose fault was that, again?”  


“_Hush_. I have a point to get to, if you would let me finish. My_ point. Is_. Perhaps… We should keep up the illusion.” 

He says it casually, like he’s discussing the traffic on the M25 and not at all like he’s proposing _marriage_. Or, well. A marriage, of sorts. 

“What,” Raphael says incredulously, “like, pretend to be _married_?” 

“Yes. Would that be so preposterous? It’s certainly easier than explaining to _him _that we just _made it all up_.” 

As Raphael looks at Asmodeus, his hands folded delicately on the table in front of him and a pure honesty in his eyes that he has _never_ seen before, the angel realizes he’s being fully serious. He had asked just those few nights ago - if he was sure. If this was what he wanted. This is Asmodeus giving him his answer, isn’t it? In this roundabout way of his. 

“It’s not as though we actually _would _be,” Asmodeus continues, forging ahead without giving Raphael much time to catch up. “It’d just be for show, you know-” 

“Yes,” says Raphael.  


“And give us the opportunity to-” Asmodeus freezes, hands flat on the tabletop. “Sorry, what?” 

“I said yes. Y’know.” Raphael shifts in his seat- clears his throat, and crosses his arms over his chest. “S’a good idea, I mean.” He scratches his nose. “Only logical, isn’t it.” 

“Oh,” says Asmodeus, with the air of one who had an entire presentation planned to pitch a new product only to have it unexpectedly accepted before even getting past the first slide. It was a fancy presentation. He’d added transitional effects and everything. 

He leans back in his seat. “Well. Yes.” 

An awkward silence descends over their suite, unbroken by careful shifting and the scrape of forks on plates. 

“Well,” says Raphael, finally ending their stalemate. “Er. Guess we need, what, rings? Are the humans still doing those?” 

His heart leaps into his throat at the thought, unused cutlery clenched in his fist. This, the most human of declarations. For a week. Because of a gag. It feels a lot more serious than it should, though maybe that’s just his projecting- he knows Asmodeus doesn’t usually go for this sort of thing. Especially not with _him_. 

“Oh- yes, right. Of course.” Asmodeus pushes back from the table in one smooth motion, slipping around the edge to take Raphael’s fist in his hand. He frees the fork with a gentle touch, setting it aside. 

His next touch is wrapping loose digits around his wrist; turning his hand over, tracing the veins under skin to trail fingers up his palm in a manner utterly innocent and yet somehow also wildly indecent. Raphael fights the shiver dancing up his spine to watch Asmodeus’ face, instead, and the barest crease to his forehead as he concentrates. 

There is a _shift_ in reality, a pull from beneath and the subsequent displacement of matter, and then there is a ring slipped onto his finger like it was made to fit there. Really, for all intents and purposes, it was. The chill of the metal burns against his skin like hellfire. 

Asmodeus closes Raphael’s hand proudly, pressing a whisper of a kiss to his knuckles. “There.” 

For a few moments, Raphael is a bit speechless, throat like sandpaper as he stares down at the adornment. Though the customs surrounding marriage have changed over the course of time, rings have been something of a constant for at least a few thousand years. He seems to recall a lovely couple in Egypt, some time ago, that came up with the tradition all on their own. 

He’d rather liked it, at the time. That feeling hasn’t faded, though he seems to recall Asmodeus having said something about it being _tasteless_. Evidently, his opinion has changed. 

Well. He can’t very well leave Asmodeus without a ring for himself. Doesn’t work that way at all, does it? And, if he’s going to do it, he may as well go the full mile. 

He pulls his hand from the demon’s grip, ducking his head to so as to not hold his gaze while he stands. He doesn’t need to see Asmodeus’ face for this. He’s scared of what he may find there. His cheeks burn as he drops to one knee, reaching out for Asmodeus’ hand again. 

Well, there’s nothing to it, then. He shuts his eyes, cupping both hands around the hand he’s holding, and concentrates. The pull isn’t unlike the same one he uses to create his stars- a sort of tug at his essence that echoes around the ether until it finds something to_ hold_\- 

“What are you_ doing_?” Asmodeus questions, breaking his concentration as his eyes snap open to give him a heatless glare. 

“Shut up. ‘M concentrating.” He could burn the whole planet if he slips up, and then where would they be? 

Although he’s clearly not pleased about it, Asmodeus does quiet down. Raphael closes his eyes again. Ah, _there- _He presses on that feeling - not unlike worrying a split lip, really - until he feels smooth metal under his fingertips. He pulls away just slightly, shifting onto his heels as he gazes up at Asmodeus. 

“Well? What d’you think? Not too much, is it?” 

“Hm,” Asmodeus says, turning his hand over to appreciate the band. “Very_ traditional_. Engraving is nice, but the stone is terribly interesting to me especially. Doesn’t it look _just_ like that one star you were telling me about-” 

“Let’s not read too deeply into that,” Raphael interrupts a bit too hastily. “Can’t compress stars into diamonds. S’not how it works.” 

He snorts. “Of course not, dear.” Raphael, for one, is glad he doesn’t mention that the stone doesn’t look like a diamond at all. 

There’s a beat of silence before Asmodeus’ hand slips into his hair, fingers threading lightly through the curls and bringing Raphael’s awareness back to the fact that he’s still gazing up at him from the ground. Raphael swallows as the demon smiles. “It’s absolutely perfect. It’ll serve its purpose nicely, I should think.” His hand slides down to cup his cheek, thumb brushing over the sharp line of his jaw. “And what of yours, my _darling wife_? Is it to your standards?” 

Raphael’s heart all but leaps out of his chest. He could practically offer it to him on a silver platter. “Oh, yeah, er, yep. S’great. Real... Ring-y. Is that meteorite?” 

“It is,” Asmodeus says smugly, helping him to his feet by their now-joined hands. “We had similar inspiration, I imagine.” 

Raphael clears his throat, again, still unable to escape that raw sense of emotion welling up in his chest. “Well. We have- places to be, y’know. Gonna be late. Again.” 

“Was that a jab at my expense?” Asmodeus comments with mock offense, raising his now-ringed hand to his chest. “You wound me. And here I thought we were _happily _married.” 

“Shut _up._ Is it too late to change my mind?” 

* * *

The rest of the day is spent practically in each other’s pockets. Stealing bites from each other’s plates, finishing each other’s sentences, _spooning, _even. It’s disgusting. 

On the upside, it largely keeps them from being bothered. They are both male-adjacent entities living in the 1980s and claiming to be “married” although no such allowances have been made for couples like them, and as such they are given odd glances and avoided like a dodgy email from one’s boss._ That _part is much more welcome, as it affords them a small amount of privacy that would otherwise have been interrupted by _small-talk_. Truly, the worst among Hell’s arsenal. Or is it Heaven’s? For the life of him, Asmodeus cannot remember. 

The few who do approach them - either well-meaning but overbearing strangers, or people like themselves - ask them how they _met_. 

And it’s not like he can tell them, can he? He can picture it now. _Oh, yes, well, in the beginning, we met in the Garden of Eden, you see. I had just talked a lovely serpent into doing a bit of tempting and Raphael here was sent to talk some sense into Adam and Eve about their choices. Lots of wiling and thwarting. It took us, oh, what was it? Almost six thousand years? To really start to sort things out._ But even saying that makes it too close tothe truth, though he’s not even quite sure what that is. They’ve been doing… _this_, for a rather long time now, but admitting that he’d been damned since he first laid eyes on his angel isn’t something he’s ready to really think about in depth just yet. 

So rather than deal with_ that_ awkward situation, Raphael resolves to craft their ‘life’ together, much to Asmodeus’ chagrin. 

“It would simply be easier,” Asmodeus sighs once they are safe in their room again, sat together on the bed, “if we were just _two people_. Who met _normally_. Perhaps you came into my shop looking for medical textbooks of some sort, and things fell into place, or we had a mutual friend that introduced us and that was that-” 

“But where’s the_ imagination_?” Raphael laments, throwing his hands up. “Where’s the- the _passion_, the _romance. _No, listen, listen- you’re not a bookseller, you’re a front for the mob. Clearly.” He gestures. Asmodeus realizes that, perhaps, his angel has been reading one too many pocket novels. “Just look at yourself. Writes itself, this does.” 

“Albeit not particularly well,” Asmodeus grumbles, unheard as Raphael’s train of thought leaves the station and comes upon another idea he’s had along the tracks. 

“And I’m-” 

“A doctor?” asks Asmodeus tiredly, not so hopeful for the answer. It’d be easier to be disgruntled if the angel weren’t so damnably charming. 

“-Yes, obviously, and we met… Oh! You’d been _shot_. Awful, really, the politics get incredibly messy with those things- Had to do surgery on you. Under protection and everything. Very tense. Open heart, or something. Saved your life. Fell in love the second I saw you on that table.” 

Asmodeus wrinkles his nose. Sounds a bit stalkery, if he’s being honest, but that’s hardly his main concern with this story. “We’re _openly telling _everyone that I was in the _mob_? No one is going to ask for this many details, my dear.” 

“Wh- no, but it’s, that’s the_ thing_. The principle of the thing. Have to be on the same page, so it’s believable. It’s backstory. The bookseller is your cover. We fall in love even though it was fated not to be - your husband would be _furious,_ after all, and- Oh! Maybe you’ve got a _kid-_” 

“The mob using my bookstore as a front is more believable than meeting through a mutual friend? And anyway, I _am _a bookseller.” When it suits him, anyways. Mostly, he considers himself a book _collector_, but he’s trying to make a point here. He studiously ignores the husbandy bits. They don’t talk about these sorts of things. 

“Listen._ Listen_,” Raphael has long shed his coat into something more comfortable, falling back against the bed. “You’re not _listening_. It’s _fun_, Asmodeus.” 

“I have a good idea of something else that’s fun,” he responds airily, settling into Raphael’s lap. “How did that verse go? _‘The two shall become one flesh?_’” 

“You’re_ terrible_, incorrigible, and beastly. _Beastly_, you are, Alexander.” Despite his words, his hands come up to run over Asmodeus’ sides before settling on his hips, unbearably fond. 

Asmodeus grins, leaning down to capture Raphael’s lips with his own. “Of course,” he murmurs against his mouth. “That’s why you married me, isn’t it?” 

* * *

Over the course of the next week, they split their time between attending the conference, exploring Edinburgh, and coming back to their hotel room at the end of the day. They visit a local farmers market, which Raphael takes an immediate liking to, and even make their way to the castle. Everywhere they go, Asmodeus introduces him as his _darling wife_, bringing his hand up to kiss his knuckles as he gushes about how wonderful a doctor he is. Sitting under some cafe stoop while it rains, a warm arm around his shoulder as the sky opens up. It’s- both entirely new and startlingly _familiar_. Like it’s how they’re always meant to be, tied together like this. Like they should’ve been doing this the entire time. The Deus-Bliants. Hyphenated, like humans have started to do. 

And just like that, the fantasy comes to an end. 

The last of the panels has been held, the convention space cleared out for other events. Their week is over. Everyone has either gone home or are staying just one last night before the morning. Very few had stayed the whole week, aside from the two of them, coming and going for the day and returning so easily to their normal lives. 

Their week is _over_, and neither of them want to consider what comes after. 

So they decide to make the most of their last night. 

Asmodeus pushes Raphael up against the door as soon as it’s shut behind them, his thigh finding the junction between Raphael’s legs easily to hoist him up. He laughs, _jubilant_, wrapping his arms around Asmodeus’ neck, feeling the smile in the kisses pressed against his neck and bitten into his skin as he’s pulled away from the door and guided into the bed. 

“As divorces go, this one’s pretty interesting,” he jokes, punctuated with a gasp as his lover sucks a bruise onto his collarbone. 

“I have to say,” Asmodeus pants, playing with Raphael’s ring as he pins his wrists above his head, “I cannot truly mind it, if I get to have you like _this_.” The words are full of a hidden double meaning, one Raphael catches onto with a hitched breath. 

Raphael’s back arches up against him, snakeline, far more than a human spine should be able to. “You could keep me like this,” he gasps, noses so close they brush. “If you wanted.” Their eyes meet for a moment as the words settle between them, easily played off as something other than what they are: an offer for _more_. More than what they’ve had for nearly six thousand years. That same unspoken offer Raphael had made in 1967. 

Instead of answering, Asmodeus kisses him breathless. 

* * *

As they lean against each other on the train ride back to London in the morning, Raphael’s hand slips into Asmodeus’ own, and finds they’ve both quietly decided to keep the rings. 

* * *

1 In this case, for Asmodeus, the floor is quite literally lava. [ return to text ] 

2 Really, it’s much easier to get into a church than Asmodeus thinks. No heist would be necessary at all, if he’d just thought to send someone during the day to collect holy water from the basin. No one would have said a thing. [ return to text ] 

3 Asmodeus hasn’t been to a hotel since the invention of room service, but he _has_ seen a number of programs on The Televisions that depict the service as terribly convenient. [ return to text ] 

4 Tacked onto the end of this prayer there seemed to be a… ;(. It is unknown how the petitioner managed to portray this in verbal parlance, especially as emojis had not yet been invented. [ return to text ] 

5 Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it), this would change for all the wrong reasons in five years’ time when a certain sewer dwelling turtle was created. [ return to text ] 

6 Raphael can be incredibly defensive of his social habits. He does _not_ spend all day moping about his flat and complaining to his houseplants, _thank you very much_. [ return to text ] 

7 The physical age of Asmodeus’ corporation fluctuates with a glance, changing it up every couple of decades for variety while Raphael remains firmly at visually nearly fifty years. [ return to text ] 

8 Asmodeus is, among a myriad of other things, also a demon of knowledge - scientific knowledge, knowledge of the mechanical arts in particular. Any event that seemed promising in this regard is an event he’ll be attending. [ return to text ] 

9 Despite being a demon of the mechanical arts, Asmodeus remains absolutely abysmal at all things involving modern technology. He’d handle ancient mechanisms over a _telly_ any day. [ return to text ] 

10 He doesn’t strictly _need_ glasses. He simply thinks that the human he pretends to be would wear them, and he is trying for an aesthetic. [ return to text ] 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so there's THAT chapter that's been emotionally destroying us for months now.
> 
> special thanks to masters of sex which is where we came up with the fakemarried business when we were marathoning that (sometimes masters of sex is a bonding ritual before you start dating and that's okay). where would we be without masters of sex, which also emotionally destroyed us. 
> 
> also modi's new year look is 


	7. duel of the fates plays ominously in the bg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beginning: hi guys! sorry it took us so long on this one, like fools we planned the next update during finals week and then of course couldn't deliver. it's fine. we're working on it. school is over now, so we're hoping to finish this fic altogether during winter break. fun times to be had! i think you'll all find this chapter to be worth the wait, anyways.
> 
> next update should, HOPEFULLY, knock on wood and all that, be january 13th. see you then!

**-London, England, 1984 AD-**

To say that Asmodeus hates public transportation is something of an understatement. “Hate” cannot begin to describe the way he feels about it. The stench is awful, there’s no place to so much as _breathe_, and if you do manage to find a seat, you’re sure to get a concussion at some point. Still, resources are finite. Even demonic energy has its limits and he’s found that he prefers to use his on more useful things than transportation when there’s other options. He’s _certainly _not going to drive when there’s drivers like a certain angel around and biking is so far out of the question that it’s not even in the same _galaxy _as the question. 

So he’s left with this: squished between a dozen humans. One of them has a cough and another is balancing a boombox on their shoulder, blasting some screeching thing that makes his ears want to bleed in agony. 

Asmodeus has a paper bag clutched in one hand, held tightly to his chest lest it get coughed on. Really, they should get that checked. He hopes to Someone that they don’t share the same stop. 

They may need a doctor, but they aren’t getting _his_. He’s_ busy_. Raphael is busy now with playing doctor and he will be busy later with their arrangement. This meeting isn’t necessarily for _work_, per se, but one_ could_ say their plans for the night were a form of thwarting. 

Before he can better consider that which has him on this bus in the first place, that horrid young man’s ‘boomed box’ takes on new heights of mind-shredding noise. 

He spends the last few minutes of his trip very seriously considering setting the thing on fire. 

As he steps off the bus at his stop, he settles on switching the tape to a rather lovely rendition of Requiem in D Minor. He smiles to himself as he hears the confused exclamations of the youth get cut off by the bus door closing. 

Now _that’s_ music to his ears. 

* * *

He’s a familiar face at the hospital. 

The receptionists at the front desk know him as Mister Deus, Doctor Bliant’s Gentleman Friend, who brings him lunches and then sits with him as he picks at it, and makes him smile - or scowl. He’s a very good friend, they think. 

The Virtues know him as the Prince Asmodeus, Demon of Lust, the enemy agent they work against, and - once upon a time - the Principality Aziraphale. They don’t bring it up, on threat of losing their jobs. Kindness, in particular, knows him as_ Modi_, and is the only person Asmodeus will allow to address him as such without some threat of serious bodily harm. [1]

Raphael knows him as his- _his_. They dare not dig any deeper into it, and really, Asmodeus is perfectly fine with that. Nothing has changed. They still wile, and they still thwart. They just also do other things. Like sit together sharing lunch. And sleep in each others’ beds. That they have their rings still and are never seen without them is irrelevant. Whatever this…_ this_ is, it is and will remain entirely on Asmodeus’ terms. And Asmodeus’ terms say strictly to not name it. 

Asmodeus nods to the receptionist as he passes, earning a wide smile from the kindly elderly woman who, to him, is practically an infant. “Good afternoon, Mr. Deus. He’s in his office.” 

“Thank you, Ethel. Such a dear, as usual.” He returns her smile, leaning briefly against the desk. Standing behind her, currently going through patient files, is the younger receptionist, Phoebe. Asmodeus spares her a wink and hears her pencil snap. 

Ethel sighs. Asmodeus grins. “Nice seeing you, ladies.” 

And then, to their eyes, he vanishes down the hall. 

Really, he just _vanishes _in the most literal sense of the word, and manifests himself directly behind Raphael in the quiet safety of his office. 

Raphael doesn’t notice him at first, his back turned towards the door as he hunts through his desk with some grumbling about _that damned pen_\- 

“Hello, dear.” 

“Jesus-fucking-tapdancing-**_Christ_**,” he squawks, spinning around and sending papers flying in every direction. 

“You know, He was a rather nice fellow, I don’t know that He deserved all _that_.” Asmodeus hums, rocking himself idly. There’s a pen dancing between the fingers of his free hand. “Is this what you were looking for?” 

“Give me _that_.” Raphael snatches at the pen, his other hand still clutched at his heart. “And stop _scaring me_. You could figure out how to _knock_. S’easy, you know.” 

“Oh, but why should I? You always let yourself into the bookshop without knocking,” Asmodeus counters cheekily. “I like for it to be a surprise, dear. Brought you lunch, even.” He shakes the bag a bit of _flare_. 

“Ooh, ham sandwich?” Already, Asmodeus’ transgressions are forgotten. Raphael asks after his sandwich with the same hope a child has asking their parent for a puppy. 

“Of course.” 

Raphael glances at his ridiculous watch, grimacing. “It’s a little early for lunch, isn’t it?” 

“They won’t miss you,” Asmodeus promises, linking their arms together to leave. 

* * *

Their usual spot is a nice shaded bench in the lovely little atrium recently built in place of the previous cafeteria. From there, they can enjoy the weather (overcast, more often than not) and chatter away about this and that as they eat their _shared lunches_\- for Asmodeus always packs two of everything. Raphael will let him finish whatever doesn’t get eaten, anyways. Which is, typically, most of it. 

“It helps with the illusion if you eat something, dear,” he sighs for what feels like the millionth time as Raphael puts his sandwich aside. 

“I did eat _something_,” he defends, gesturing to where his sandwich sits with three measley missing bites. “I have a small appetite, anyway.” 

“There’s having a small appetite, and then there’s having an_ inhuman_ appetite,” he points out. It’s been an argument between them for at least a thousand years. 

“Well, ‘m not human, am I? Not like anyone’s paying attention to what I’m _eating_.” Raphael sulks. 

“But you’re supposed to be-” 

“No, you know what? This is ridiculous. _You _are ridiculous. I don’t even know why we’re still having this conversation.” He crosses his arms stubbornly, and Asmodeus snorts. 

“Oh, but you’re so right, my dear. Let’s talk about our plans tonight instead.” 

Raphael groans up at the sky. “Urgh, _Cats_. Why’d you have to go and_ remind _me?” 

“Don’t be a _spoilsport_. I’ve told you, it’s really rather spectacular. It’s not so much about the plot as it is the craftsmanship. You see, it’s more of a _concept _musical, not a _book _musical.” 

“Yes, yes, so you’ve said. Because you’ve _already seen it_. I don’t see why you’d want to go again-” 

“It’s on _Broadway_, now. It’s an entirely different experience. Honestly, Raphael, after _The Sound of Music_, you owe me.” 

“That was _never _my idea! We both hated that- don’t drag my name through the mud, s’a low blow.” 

Asmodeus sniffs, taking a delicate bite of his own ham sandwich. “Nevertheless, you already agreed. You have something to wear, yes?” 

Raphael sighs. “Yes, yeah, I did. ‘N of course I do. It’ll be-” he looks a bit pained as he says it, but he doesn’t want to hurt his demon’s _feelings_ \- assuming, of course, that he has any. “_-Fun_. I’m sure it can’t be _that _bad.” 

There’s a phrase within the human language that goes something like “famous last words”, typically referring to the words spoken before something truly _awful _happens, in direct contradiction to whatever said words had been. 

If Raphael had only known what he’d agreed to, he might’ve been sure to have a drink or twelve beforehand. 

* * *

Asmodeus loiters around the hospital being a general nuisance, pestering the Virtues, tormenting the receptionists, and generally being the _model demonic soldier_ in fomenting discord until it is time to leave. 

He walks out the doors with a bit of a pep in his step, ready for a pleasant evening. 

* * *

One of the many benefits to having a powerful Archangel as a- well, as a _something_, is that one moment they’re driving through the crowded streets of London and the next it’s the equally crowded streets of New York City. Really, Raphael should count himself lucky that he doesn’t have to log his miracles. [2]

Raphael gets the door for Asmodeus, and they bypass the line entirely- for lines are things _other beings _have to deal with, naturally. 

They strap in for what is, in Asmodeus’ opinion, a very entertaining two and a half hours. 

In Raphael’s opinion, it’s the third most painful thing he’s ever experienced. The first had been the Fall of Lucifer and Aziraphale. Second, _The Sound of Music_. 

* * *

“That was just lovely,” Asmodeus praises. “The costuming- did you see the choreography? And oh, _Memory…_” The demon clutches his chest with a shake of his head. 

“It was certainly… not _The Sound of Music_,” Raphael offers cautiously. 

Asmodeus’ head whips around to _stare _at him, and he suddenly has a feeling that it’s going to be a very long night. 

* * *

After a performance like that, their evening could only be improved by a meal. Asmodeus had been prepared for something in the city. 

“Got a surprise dinner for you,” Raphael says, once they’re back into the Bentley. 

And then Raphael warps them from New York back to London, right into his usual parking place outside his flat, and that didn’t seem like a _surprise dinner_ at all. “Gonna need your eyes shut for this bit. And no, I refuse to debate with you further on the merits of Cats.” 

Raphael takes him to the top of his complex, no more than a step behind Asmodeus with hands over his eyes. “Just be- be patient,” he’s laughing in his ear. “Oh- oh, watch that step there, yeah. Easy, dearheart.” 

“You could have just waited until we were _up there_ to blindfold me rather than risk my _imminent discorporation_ with this scheme,” Asmodeus grouses, stumbling over another stair step. Behind him, Raphael snorts. 

“Please. As if I could trust you to not peek. I _know_ you, Asmodeus.” 

The demon sniffs. “Still.” 

“Don’t worry about it. S’fine. We’re almost there.” 

There, as it turns out, is the ugly sun-baked concrete top of his building, stinking of asphalt and booze. There are cigarette butts in the corners, and vents, and machinery of no discernible purpose. 

And there, on the edge, is a delicate little picnic blanket, a basket, two wine glasses, and hopefully copious amounts of wine. 

Despite it all, he’s charmed. But it’s still not the ‘five course meal at a fancy restaurant’ that he’d been promised. 

“You shouldn’t have,” Asmodeus says dryly. 

“Yeah, well,” Raphael ducks his head in a strange shrugging motion, gesturing. “You said date night, ‘n I thought-” 

The demon squints. Raphael _never_ thinks. “This is the Virtues’ doing, isn’t it. Whose idea was it? Charity? _Kindness_?” 

Raphael’s wince is all the answer he needs, but the angel goes on anyways. 

“Yeeeah, maybe. A little. A little bit. I think Temperance tried to pack sparkling grape juice rather than wine. Group effort, really.” 

Asmodeus tips his head back in a sigh. “Why did you let them- you told them about the _picnic_? _Really_? It was merely an example of something we_ could_ do.” [3]

“They latched on to it!” Raphael exclaims defensively. “Why, is it- do you not- d’you not like it?” 

Asmodeus looks at Raphael, and then at the little scene, and - regrettably - he has to declare it _good_. 

“It’s perfect,” he sighs. “Come sit with me.” 

He’s already poured them both glasses by the time Raphael joins him. The basket is packed with fettuccine chicken alfredo which is surprisingly passable for something miracled into existence rather than house-made. 

The stars, as if sensing the presence of their creator, burn brighter in the sky. It helps that Asmodeus has exerted a minor miracle to dim the lights in the surrounding area. Mayfair could do with one measly little brownout. Raphael braces his arms behind himself, head tipped back to appreciate. 

“I made that one,” he says, absently. He points at the stars that make up Gemini. “And those, for my brother.” 

“Oh, of course,” Asmodeus says, head tilting. “That _was _your job, wasn’t it?” 

Raphael suddenly looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Yeah,” he says. “I also did- that one, and that one - I think that fizzly one there was Gabriel, he didn’t have much knack for it.” 

Asmodeus listens to him as he rambles, pointing out names and planets. He speaks of the stars like long-lost friends. 

Eventually, the demon points to the tail-end of Ursa Minor, which Raphael had up until then staunchly avoided. “And this one?” 

When Raphael doesn’t immediately answer, Asmodeus looks at him questioningly. “My dear?” 

“Oh, that one. Can’t remember, really. It’s- s’a long time ago,” Raphael says, strained. He picks at the edge of the blanket and does not look up. “I didn’t make all of ‘em, y’know. Some other angel, probably. A- a principality, I think.” 

Never mind that principalities don’t typically have that kind of power. Asmodeus knows when an answer is being avoided, but he doesn’t press further just yet, for the way Raphael is looking up at him, now - something strange and feral in his eyes, pained and alien without the light of the sun - dissuades him from asking more. Asmodeus just hums and leans back. 

“It shines bright,” he says, probing carefully around the edges of this jagged wound. “Did your principality do that?” 

“Yeah,” Raphael breathes. He looks back up into the dark. 

“Yeah. Yeah, he did.” 

* * *

**-London, England, 1987 AD-**

Raphael wakes, for the first time in a rather _long_ time, to the feeling of _love_. It’s an advent worth taking note of. There’s a soft purr in his ear vibrating through his chest, and a cushion of curls pressed against his cheek- the light of the sun and this languid creature draped on his chest bathing him in warmth. 

As Raphael cards his fingers lazily through those curls, he contemplates how rare a thing this is. After all, before now, he hadn’t woken up with the demon beside him since the Inquisition. But lately it hadn’t been because Asmodeus _left_. He rolled out of bed at the crack of dawn each morning, but he did not_ leave_. He comes _back_. Raphael often wakes to a note on the bedside table or the blankets or stuck to his forehead- letting him know he’s gone off to manage some minor temptations in the West End, or attend to paperwork Down Below, or see about a book deal he’d inquired about the week before, and that he’d be back by noon or in time for dinner. Sometimes, Raphael is even woken up to the smell of a traditional English breakfast [4] and the sound of the demon bustling about the kitchenette. 

No, Raphael never wakes_ alone_. Not really. Especially not this morning. 

Asmodeus butts his head up under Raphael’s chin, nuzzling against him a bit, and he can’t help but smile. He tugs lightly on a curl until Asmodeus lifts his head. “Morning,” Raphael greets, eyes gone terribly soft. 

“Afternoon, I think,” Asmodeus hums, leaning in to brush his lips over his cheek in a featherlight kiss. Raphael’s eyes flicker shut as the demon trails the kisses up his cheekbone. “Mm, did you know you snore?” 

“Oh, do I?” he questions, with the tone of someone who doesn’t particularly care one bit. 

“_And_ drool. It’s terribly unattractive.” 

“‘M sure it is,” he mumbles, arm slipping around Asmodeus’ shoulder now to brush his fingers lightly over his skin in small circles. “Where’d that come from?” 

“Where did what come from, dear?” He hasn’t stopped his shower of kisses, smiling now as he peppers them against his jaw. 

“That _freckle_. ‘S new.” 

“Well, goodness, how am I supposed to know? The sun and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.” He is, of course, referring to the last sunburn he got which was sometime back in the days of Alexander the Great, and he has neither forgiven nor forgotten. He pauses his trail of kisses to stretch, joints popping, and settle back down on Raphael’s chest with a pleased noise. “_Interesting_ that you’d notice it, though.” 

His voice is a teasing melody and Raphael snorts, gathering the demon up in his arms. 

“Well, I should know _every inch_ of my rival here on earth, shouldn’t I?” There’s the barest brush of his lips to Asmodeus’ shoulder, right over that new freckle. “Although, I_ suppose _I could do with some more study. S’for, y’know, scientific purposes. The greater good. You understand.” 

He punctuates these words with further kisses, meandering up Asmodeus’ neck as his hands meander _elsewhere_. He can feel the answering purr beneath his lips, but it’s interrupted by the demon’s next words. 

“The _greater good_? I’m afraid I don’t_ understand _at all - I thought we agreed you washing the dishes last night was for the ‘greater good’.” He pulls out of Raphael’s grasp with no small amount of reluctance, and Raphael _sighs_. 

“Aw, don’t be like that, sweetheart,” he croons, hands sliding to hold Asmodeus’ hips, barely managing to bite back a grin when he sees his nose scrunch up at the endearment. [5]

“Absolutely_ not,_ Raphael, it is _noon. _Just because you have a day free does _not _mean you’ll be spending it in bed.” He extricates himself from the python’s hold Raphael has on him, leaving the angel whining in the wake of his warmth. Raphael isn’t beneath reaching out for him and wiggling his fingers with a little pout. 

Asmodeus pauses on his way out of the room. “If,” he says, “and only_ if _you behave, we might return to bed for you to make good on those intentions_ later._” 

Raphael supposes he’ll take what he can get. “I can just miracle them, y’know, s’the same thing,” he grouses as he struggles with his pants, hopping from one ungainly leg to another. Dishes. What did he think he was, an archangel? [6]

“_You will do no such thing_,” Asmodeus hisses menacingly from just downstairs, as though Raphael had suggested they go out for a brisk morning jog that happens to be on their way to Mass. 

No fun at all. 

* * *

In a rare event, Asmodeus decides to stay in for the evening. 

“You don’t have to stay. I know it’s dreadfully boring watching someone else work. In fact, I think that was one of my inventions.” The last part is mumbled mainly to himself while he putters about the bookshop, moving things around so that they’re just the slightest bit more _off-putting_ to the average customer. 

Raphael is lounging on the couch, one arm hanging off the edge while the other is draped over his eyes, his leg lifted up over the back. His foot is bouncing lightly, more of a habit than anything. If he sits still for too long, he fears he might wither away like a dried up begonia. “Hm, nah, I don’t mind. Might take a nap on your couch, though. Way cozier than mine.” The couch in question is rather plush, with just enough space for an angel to slither into and feel right at home. His, on the other hand, is a terribly modern thing you can’t quite find any good way to sit on without sliding off the end. 

“You know, Sloth is a sin, my dear. You’re being terribly lazy today.” The words might sound harsh coming from anyone else, but even from here Raphael can hear the teasing smile in them. 

“‘S’not my fault your bookshop is so comfortable. You should really work on that. Someone could get lost in here and then where would you be?” 

“Well, I’m _trying _to work on it, but I just can’t find the right place to put this statue so it’s dreadfully inconvenient-” 

“How about by the door to the bathroom? Make it harder to squeeze in.” 

“Oh, an excellent idea-” His voice trails off as he presumably goes to place it just there. Raphael’s lips twitch upwards in amusement before he turns over onto his side, head pillowed on his arm to nap. 

And nap he tries. Just as he’s starting to doze off, mind hazy with those half-formed thoughts that melt with dreams- 

_Screeeeeeeee_. 

There’s the shriek of something _heavy_ shoved along the wood of the shop floor, and he lurches upwards with a yelp. His head whips around, limbs scrambling from his half-asleep knot. 

“What the _hell _is that?” 

Asmodeus pokes his head in. 

“Oh, sorry, dear. Moving some bookcases. You know how it is.” 

Raphael most definitely _does not._

“I did say,” Asmodeus sniffs as he returns to his work, “that you didn’t have to stay.” There’s a further scraping sound, accompanied by a muffled curse. 

Raphael sits up further, swinging his legs off of the sofa. “Did you just say ‘_damnation_’?” 

“Silence, cur.” 

Peak romance. He reluctantly meanders from his spot to see just what it is that has got Asmodeus fired up enough to curse; it has been a while since Raphael was last called a _cur_. 

Asmodeus is standing back from a bookcase pushed half-across the shop, staring at it with his chin in hand like it’s some strange specimen he has never encountered before and has the _audacity_ to defy classification. 

“The downside of this,” he says, “is that I do have to do quite a bit of cleaning whenever it’s time to rearrange.” 

Raphael stops beside him. The layer of dust alone that settles itself on top of the now-still surface could serve as the setting of an entire seventy-five book Dr. Seuss series and thensome. It’s dusty. A fingertip swiped across the surface wouldn’t see the light of day for centuries, no many how many times its owner washed their hands. He wrinkles his nose. 

He nearly comments that Asmodeus could simply accomplish this with a few miracles, but thinks better of it. No need to go and make the mood worse. “Which section is this, again?” 

“It’s _going_ to be dubious religious texts,” Asmodeus responds. “But there’s just- something back there keeping it from where it _needs_ to be, when I _know _it shouldn’t be anything more than some old blankets…” 

He gives the bookcase another shove. Raphael fights the urge to sneeze. 

“Why don’t you just move the blankets?” 

The look he’s fixed with would make anyone quiver with the fear of a displeased authority figure. 

“They’re _very_ old blankets, my dear.” 

Raphael squints around the edge of the bookcase, before Asmodeus’ frantic gesturing can stop him. Behind it, he finds himself staring into the depths of centuries of build-up, multitudes of debris, eternities of vibrational clutter that defies definition, and one single copy of the collected works of HP Lovecraft. 

“Oh,” Asmodeus says. “So that’s where that went.” 

He blows off the cover, and Raphael does not inhale for a solid three minutes. He could swear he saw _things_ moving in the dark. He’s pretty sure his eyes went to Hell. He would know. He’s been before a handful of times with Michael. 

“This is getting out of hand,” he says, finally. Asmodeus scowls. 

“It is not. I know _everything _that is in my shop. Each item is where it should be, in its preordained position.” 

He’s pretty sure nothing behind that bookcase, including the apparent _very old_ blankets, is where it should be. It’s a bit baffling, really, that someone so fastidious about his appearance can be this flippant about the order of his bookshop. 

That thought makes Raphael pause as he realizes he’d never known that about Aziraphale. In fact, there were quite a bit of things he’d never gotten to learn about him at all. The way he prefers his hot cocoa with a ridiculous amount of marshmallows, the way his face lights up on discovery of new-old manuscripts, and his absolute adoration for the bold fashion of the decade. Back then, everything had been so _new_, including them. They hadn’t had the chance to settle into their personalities just yet. He’d loved him then, but the way he loves Asmodeus is something else, that same love_ taken _and_ grown,_ nursed with gentle hands and flourishing into- 

“You’re staring.” 

Raphael blinks, shaking his head a little. “Oh- sorry. Right. What were you saying?” 

“I was_ saying_,” Asmodeus says severely, “that_ everything _is where it’s supposed to be. Even this copy of Lovecraft, which I would thank you to put back, if you would.” 

Raphael isn’t sure he wants to brave the sight of the Behind The Bookcase again. He’s pretty sure it could be counted as a new form of existence. He’s fairly certain if left alone it could gain _sentience_. Make war against all the other little piles of clutter in the bookshop, secede and declare itself an independent nation. 

On the other hand, he’d also rather enjoy calling Asmodeus on his shit. ‘Everything where it should be’ his _ass_. 

“Actually,” Raphael responds, setting the Lovecraft on a shelf, “if you’re so on about this spring cleaning, might as well go all out, huh? No point doin’ anything halfway. Bet you have no idea what’s behind half these bookshelves, anyway.” He grins at him, and he can see the moment Asmodeus takes and accepts it as a challenge. There’s a narrowing to his eyes, the tiniest wrinkle to his brow. 

“Fine, then. But don’t be sore when it turns out I’m _right_.” 

* * *

They spend the rest of the afternoon doing battle against the darkness that is Asmodeus’ centuries old hoard of garbage. ‘Keepsakes’, Asmodeus calls them. Raphael can’t really see what he could possibly need with an old takeout menu from _Nineveh_ [7].Like, _honestly_. 

He does, however, use the menu to swat a spider that he finds daring to crawl in his hair. 

“Oh, don’t hurt the poor thing!” Asmodeus reprimands, taking the creature in a nearby cup with the gentleness one might offer a newborn lamb. “I thought your side was all about divine mercy. She never did anything to harm_ you_.” 

He deposits the animal on a nearby windowsill, and Raphael is once again left in awe of this demon that’s chosen to be beside him. How he can find it in his heart to be kind to a bloody _spider _is beyond him. 

“You destroyed her _house_,” Asmodeus continues judgmentally with an affronted little sniff. Raphael shakes his head, fond. 

The blankets had been, indeed, very old, and had disintegrated upon contact. Asmodeus sighs. “Those were my favorites, too, you know.” 

“Should get a fuckin’ professional in here,” Raphael mutters. “Christ.” He moves on to the next disaster. 

Bit by bit, they uncover more and more of the shop, and more and more things that Asmodeus had conveniently forgotten about. There’s no small amount of commentary, such as “oh, that’s where that went,” or “I’ve been looking for that.” Raphael even finds a watch he’d been missing for a solid century that Asmodeus had _sworn _he hadn’t seen anywhere. 

“Still sure you know where everything is in your shop, dearheart?” 

“I _am_. I am sure everything is _in_ the shop, somewhere. It’s enough for me.” 

In all the years Asmodeus has owned it, Raphael has never managed to explore the entirety of the bookshop. It seems like every time he thinks he’s reached the end of it, another corner works its way into reality despite that not being how corners work, or another bookshelf appears out of thin air like it’s trying to taunt him. He rounds one of these impossibly annoying corners and finds an old piano, the dust gathered on it in much the same state as that of the first bookshelf. 

“You’ve got a _piano_?” 

“Do I?” Asmodeus pauses, voice coming from some distant region of the shop. “Oh, yes, of course I do.” 

Raphael shakes his head. “Thing looks _ancient_. Think Mozart must’ve used it.” 

Asmodeus weaves his way to where Raphael stands. “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s not _that _old.” He frowns, tapping his chin. “Although, now that I remember it, my good friend Ludwig did take a turn on it once.” 

“_Beethoven_?” 

“Yes, you remember him, don’t you?” 

“_Do I remember Beethoven_-” Raphael shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous. Do you know that?” 

He circles the piano, trailing a finger over the gathered dust. “Poor thing. ‘S in no condition. Probably miserably out of tune, too-” Curiously, he reaches to hit one of the keys. He winces. Well, that’s _definitely _not a C. 

Before he quite realizes he’s doing it, he’s sliding onto the bench. He waves his hand over the keys, performing a small miracle to tune the sorry thing. He hits the same key again, lips spreading into a smile as the right note plays this time. “Much better, see?” 

He plays a climbing scale, then a descending. Asmodeus hums appreciatively, leaning his elbow against the piano and placing his chin in his hand. 

He leads into the opening bars of Maxwell’s Silver Hammer, and the appreciative hum disappears as quickly as it had appeared [8],replaced with a scowl and huff. Raphael laughs, and vanishes the dust coating the thing elsewhere. His fingers dance across the keys experimentally, trying a different tune entirely, and notes change to something slower; a song that hasn’t quite made its way to the universe just yet. The keys are familiar beneath his fingertips. Like riding a bike, really. 

It’s been- far too long, since he’s played. Once he’d taught the humans music, he’d taken a rather hands off approach. Before, way back in the Beginning, he hadn’t been the only Angel of Music. It’d been something of a shared job between him and his twin, though it had been Lucifer that took to it with gusto. His music had been so beautiful. They’d created the musical scale together, along with some notes the humans can’t even hear, forming the sounds the planets made into something far more delicate. Once_ he _was gone, the job seemed a rather empty one. It was one thing to teach the humans, in the beginning. They took to it like fish to the sea, rather like Lucifer had when he was introduced to it by their Mother: the things they had composed were so _imaginative_, songs about the seasons and the animals and hymns upon hymns for their God. 

He’d left it in humanity’s capable hands, after that. It just wasn’t something that brought him the same _joy _it once had. 

Raphael has not sat down to play just for music’s sake since- the beginning, really. He still knows how. It’s not something you forget. And as he looks up at Asmodeus’ expectant face, he makes a choice. He stretches his fingers, rolls his shoulders, and begins to play in earnest. 

It’s tentative, at first, the notes he stumbles through like he’s relearning their shape. For the first time in ages, he feels his soul delight in the soft melody and as Asmodeus keeps his gaze, he’s fairly certain he knows _why_. This… _thing_ between them, for all their jabs and fights, their torn edges like the ripped page of a book, somehow manages to still be every bit as beautiful and_ precious_ to him as it once was. His fingers make their own decision quite against his better judgement, finding their way into a simple but evocative theme unlike anything he would have crafted Before. 

And of course it is. Of course it’s _different_. He isn’t playing this for himself, for the humans, for- for _God_. 

It’s for Asmodeus. 

And Asmodeus knows it. Raphael can see the realization in his eyes, and his hands slip- he has to turn away from it, focus on watching his fingers dance over the keys instead. He could keep playing for hours, easily, well into the night and the next day, avoiding Asmodeus’ gaze and avoiding what he might find there if he looks up. 

Were he to look up, he might find Asmodeus looking at him like he’s realized something rather _important_. Monumentous. A realization that mirrors one he had in another time and place. 

Raphael doesn’t look up. Instead, he lets his song trail into silence, realizing there’s nowhere more for it to go. It’s just for the two of them, after all. He takes in a breath, stunned by the sudden, raw loss of the walls he’d built that had been taken down by a simple handful of notes. It wasn’t even overly elaborate - was quite simple, in fact. He could do better, if he really wanted to. He had in the past. But he doesn’t need to, does he? It doesn’t need to be elaborate, this thing between them. It can just _be._

He opens his mouth to say- something. He isn’t sure what, yet, and maybe he should stop and think before he says something he can’t take back that the both of them will regret. 

Before he can, Asmodeus takes his face in both of his hands and drags him up into a fierce kiss. He slips down onto the bench, and then into Raphael’s arms, like if he shifts just right he’ll knit their souls back together through sheer force of will. And it’s _impossible_ for him to know that’s what he’s trying to do, Raphael _knows_ he doesn’t remember, but he feels the act nonetheless and kisses him all the deeper for it. 

Asmodeus pulls away first, taking in a shuddering breath. “Let’s go to bed,” he says. 

He takes Raphael by the hands, leading him away up the stairs. Raphael can feel himself on the precipice of something, something wide and dark and dangerous and so, so holy. 

And Raphael follows him anyways. 

* * *

**-London, England, 31st December 1989 AD-**

The thing about being a doctor, about being a _healer,_ is that you cannot save everyone. Raphael knows this, fundamentally- has known for as long as war has existed that not every wound can be knit back together, and not every ailment can be vanished. No, Raphael is no stranger to loss. He was one of the first beings in existence to know its knife-twist pain. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone, really. With the powers he has, at his command he could simply will it that no one would ever feel loss again; he could take life by its scruff like a misbehaved pup and shake it ‘til it bowed. 

He could. He _could_. But he won’t. Surely the moment he tried, the moment he helped humanity to circumvent their curse, the _moment_ he attempts to bend reality to such a point that Death Himself would turn backwards, Raphael would be struck down for his insolence. Felled or_ worse _for disobeying Heaven. 

He does what he can, minor miracles here or there to speed healing or give strength, tiny things he and his Virtues can offer and get away with, but they are not permitted anything more than that. He cannot save them all. Any miraculous recoveries, anything _noticeable_ that defies the Plan or deprives Death a soul, they are not to interfere with in accordance to Heaven’s law since the advent of Her Son’s death and subsequent return. He _cannot_ save them all, not even the smallest nor the weakest, not even the most ‘insignificant,’ because there is _no such thing _as a human person who does not matter. 

There is a boy in his care. There- there _was_ a boy in his care. 

There was a boy in his care, and he was _good_. Optimistic, bright as the sun. He wanted to be an olympic athlete. Then he wanted to be a teacher. Then all he wanted to do was play outside, to be a kid again. Then he wanted to be a doctor. 

Then he was gone. 

He was twelve years old. His name was Abel. 

Raphael had tried _so hard_. He _loved_ the boy, as much as he loved all of them. He nudged him towards recovery as much as he dared, as much as he could get away with save banishing his affliction entirely from his body. And he would have. He would have if he could have but he had already been _reprimanded _for too many _miraculous_ recoveries. Any more and he wouldn’t be allowed to help at _all_. His attempt at explanation had fallen on deaf ears. Michael hadn’t even cared, when he [9] came for his ‘visit’. He didn’t come for that. It wasn’t in his _job description _to care about sickly humans or their brief little lifespans. 

He leaves after Michael does, intending to go home and maybe get a bit lost in the bottle. For a moment, before he’d left his office, he’d thought about calling Asmodeus. Going to get a drink, finding comfort in his presence. But this isn’t something he wants the demon to see. He’s already shown his vulnerable underbelly one too many times around him and it’s something he needs to deal with alone, this time. 

For what is perhaps the first time since he’s gotten the Bentley, he’s following the speed limit to the letter, too deep in his own head to feel the sort of impatience he usually gets in London’s traffic. The silence of the drive is ringing in his ears. It’s snowing. That perfect kind of snow, the kind that sticks to the ground to create a perfect winter wonderland, the kind a child would think pure magic. On its own, this kind of snow isn’t all that important, but snow rarely sticks in London and the year has been unusually warm. It’s nothing short of a miracle. 

Raphael feels the lump in his throat grow tenfold and reaches to flip on the radio in hopes of drowning out his thoughts. Christmas carols. All it is is bloody _Christmas carols_. Christmas is already _over_, has been for a _week_, they should really let it go at this point. But then, anything is better than the silence. 

He’s just about ready to tear out his hair over having to listen to a fifth special ABBA rendition of _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_ when the Bentley swings to a stop into its usual spot on the street outside of the bookshop. Raphael sits dumbly, looking out the window at the blessedly snow-free doorstep. At this point, he doesn’t even argue. No point in turning around and going back home when he’s already here. 

He stumbles up the steps as if drunk, when really it’s mostly that he can’t see through frozen tears and the sidewalk is slippery, the snow starting to fall in true earnest. As he pushes the door open, the bell above it rings out. 

* * *

The bell at the front door of the shop rings, a delightful jingle spelling disaster for all new ears who hear it. 

“I do believe the sign says we’re _closed_-” begins Asmodeus in his implacable customer service voice, already bracing himself to have to shoo some rude soul out into the snow, before he looks up to find Raphael standing in the doorway, shivering just slightly. Well, that’s unusual, but he smiles all the same. “You’re early.” He comes from around the counter and takes his coat from its hook. He wasn’t prepared to leave so soon, but he doesn’t mind a little wait. “That’s alright, those manuscripts I was supposed to be going over today didn’t show up. Holiday and all, I suppose-” 

He pauses. “Is that what you plan to wear to dinner?” His eyes flick over Raphael’s form, his lips pursing slightly as he takes in his appearance. Those scrubs simply do _nothing _for his figure. “Well, never mind that. We can stop by your place, if you’d like to change.” 

Raphael is silent, leaned against the wall next to the door, staring at that odd little stain on the floor that had been there since the shop opened. It most definitely is _not _a blood stain. Asmodeus pays him no mind, slipping on his gloves and hat now and beginning to walk towards him. “I shouldn’t think I’ll be needing a scarf...” 

As he begins to draw closer, fully taking in Raphael’s disheveled state, Asmodeus’ words trail into silence and a little frown forms on his lips. “My dear, you look _awful._ Are you quite alright?” 

Raphael clears his throat, not bothering to lift his gaze. He absently fiddles with a loose string on his coat. “Would it be too much trouble to stay in tonight?” The request is quiet and he sounds distant. Asmodeus’ first instinct is to react in irritation - they had been planning this dinner for a _year - _but then his second, stronger reaction is one of_ worry_. Raphael looks almost scared, like he doesn’t know what to expect, what he’ll say. 

He certainly looks like he didn’t expect Asmodeus to gently take his arm and draw him further into the shop, hanging his coat for him, pressing cocoa materialized from the nether into his hands. On second thought, seeing Raphael’s expression and thinking better, the cocoa becomes something quite a bit stronger. 

“Sit down,” the Prince says, decision made, only letting go of his arm long enough to pull off his own hat and gloves. “We’ll spend the night in. The weather is frightful, anyways.” He says it like the reservations could be made again, like the restaurant wasn’t already booked out for the next six months. When he looks, Raphael’s lips twist in guilt. It will be fine - his angel always makes it up to him, in the end. 

“Got a visit from my Sister,” he says suddenly, as if it’s terribly important he share this information as quickly as possible. He wipes at his chilled nose, voice sounding thick. “Some kind of.. Surprise inspection, or something. Completely out of the blue. ‘Checking in on things,’ he’d said. Like I’m ‘sposed to _believe _that. I don’t know what they’re planning, but it’s all- doesn’t make sense that he’d visit. Haven’t seen him on earth since-” He stops, considering. “-Since that whole business with Daniel, really. Michael, he hadn’t- he didn’t even-” 

He breaks off, and Asmodeus frowns into his own glass of materialized wine, trying to guide him towards the couch, sitting down next to him. “That’s interesting,” he murmurs. “Very odd. The other Princes have been breathing down my neck as well lately, no doubt due to _the events_ being rescheduled for some time within the next twenty years or so [10], you know, but-” 

He looks up just in time to catch Raphael’s face crumpling in on itself like a dying star. He isn’t listening at all. 

“Oh, my dear boy,” Asmodeus sighs, reaching for his hand. “Whatever he said couldn’t have been _that_ bad, can it?” 

Raphael takes a moment to say anything at all. When he does, his voice is like lead. Choked. “It’s just,” he begins, then halts. “He- wanted to play in the snow,” he starts with a sniff, rubbing a hand over his face. “Was hopin’ it would snow again so he could- even thought about doing a miracle. If he’d just- it was just another _hour_. How could he have- it was an _hour_, Asmodeus. An hour, sixty minutes, that’s- it’s nothing, for us, if I’d _known_-” 

Asmodeus feels as though he’s missing something. It takes him a moment to catch up, from Archangels visiting on surprise inspections to- 

He remembers, just a few months ago, Raphael going on about a boy in his care with such shining potential that being in the room in him was like staring into the_ sun -_ how he could see his whole future mapped out ahead of him, how he deserved every chance in the world to succeed and Raphael would make sure he’d _get that - _and suddenly Asmodeus realizes what this is about. Last he heard, they had been so sure the child would pull through in the end. Isn’t that just _ineffable_. 

“Oh,” he says, much more quietly this time. 

In the moment he took to come back, Raphael has descended further down this rabbit hole he’s found himself in. He’s scrubbing at his face like he can stop the tears from falling through sheer force of will alone. “‘Nd I- he deserved it, y’know? One last day in the snow. Before the New Year. He was so _excited_-” 

He breaks off with a shaky sob, exploding upwards to pace and sending a stack of nearby papers flying. “I’m- I’m sorry, shouldn’t have come here- I should just- you don’t wanna see this-” 

Raphael pushes off and shoves past him in an effort to make his escape, and Asmodeus- Asmodeus prides himself on his ability to_ distract_, to take minds and twist them away and into something else, to make things_ fun_. It’s so much better to have fun than to be sad. He can fix a lot of things, but this… This, he is not meant for. 

It has always pained him to see Raphael in these moods, these states, glum and grieving. He never could put a finger on why. 

He’s not meant for this. But for Raphael, he will try. 

He reaches out, just barely catching Raphael’s elbow, and draws him down into what he thinks the humans call a _hug_. He rubs half-heartedly between Raphael’s wings, clumsy in this show of affection. Asmodeus can’t recall if he’s ever really given a hug, before, or _been _given one for that matter. Raphael freezes in his arms, evidently as unused to the action as he is. It’s simply not _done_, not for angels and certainly not for demons. 

After a moment, Raphael melts, deflating in a way that rather reminds Asmodeus of a balloon. He tucks the angel’s head to his shoulder, one hand coming up to stroke through his hair. “You couldn’t have known this would happen.” 

“But I_ sshould have_\- it’s what _always happens, _no matter how hard I try to-” He can feel his tears seeping through the cloth of his shirt and it’s enough to break his heart. 

“It was just one boy, my dearest,” he offers in vain. “You’ll save others. Just as you have before-” 

Raphael shoves him away unexpectedly, leaving Asmodeus to flounder a bit, unsure of where he’d misstepped. “It wasn’t _jussst one boy_,” he hisses. “That’ss exactly what _Michael _told me. Just one _human, inssss- inssignificant_ in the _Great Plan_. Is that what you want? To sound like _them_?” 

Unwilling to be frightened off like some kind of mouse, Asmodeus steps back into his space, reaching to frame his face. “_Never,_ Starlight. I’d never. Come here, come back- sit with me.” 

He draws him down beside him, pressed against his side like hands pressed in prayer. Raphael shakes his head, but his hands come up to meet Asmodeus’ anyways. “Nothing’s changed,” he whispers. “Six millennia and I still can’t save Abel.” 

Asmodeus leans close, pressing his forehead to Raphael’s own. “Hush, my own. My _own_. You do such work for these humans- You’re _good_. Not like them, not like Michael and the rest, but _good_. You love them, you always have. That makes you stronger than you can possibly imagine.” He pauses, then finishes barely above a whisper- “You’ve _no idea_ how I envy and admire you for that.” 

Raphael sniffles pathetically, nodding as his eyes slip shut. For a few moments, he simply breathes and Asmodeus lets him. It’s reassuring, in its own way, feeling that steady rise and fall between them. 

When his eyes open, Asmodeus is still there, waiting for him. He rather thinks he always will be. 

He pulls away, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at the little whine Raphael makes as he tries to follow, and leans back. 

“I have an idea,” he says. 

“Where are you_ going_?” Raphael asks, wiping his face and having some of those broken pieces seem to shift back into place as he watches Asmodeus wander away. He picks through his records rather than answering, humming to himself consideringly as he picks. He needs something, something- something just_ right._ Something to distract Raphael, make him smile that gorgeous smile of his, make him laugh again. He needs something that might not fix everything, but will stop the pain for a time. Distract it, like he’s good at. 

He has just the thing. 

“Ah, here it is.” He tugs one free, blowing dust from the top. “Picked this up some time in- oh, when was it, 1950? Around there. I don’t know that it’s quite _your speed-” _Raphael snorts from across the room “-_but_, it should help, I do think.” 

Asmodeus lifts the needle delicately, settling it onto the record with a flourish. “That should do nicely,” he decides, nodding once as the notes crooned from a voice long gone drift lazily through the shop. 

He backs away from the gramophone, humming along to it already, hips starting to sway ever so slightly as he makes his way back towards Raphael. As he approaches, Raphael lifts his gaze to follow him until Asmodeus stops in front of him, holding out a hand. 

“Might I have this dance?” He questions, bent slightly at the waist in some approximation of a lord asking his lady to join him in the ballroom, eyes practically aglow with fondness. When Raphael hesitates, he beckons him with a little wave of his fingers. 

“I’m not sure now is the time-” 

“Nonsense. There’s always time for dancing.” He takes Raphael’s hands in his own all the same, drawing him from his seat and into the center of the room. There wasn’t much space for dancing, but they’d make do- and Asmodeus surreptitiously spirits away some of the clutter into closets and under furniture to make more room. 

“I don’t _dance_, you know- angels don’t- _we_ don’t-” 

“Oh, but you _do_. I’ve seen it. I was _there _for the 70s, you know.” Though it wasn’t particularly good dancing. Raphael remembers this, and grimaces. 

“Demons don’t dance either,” he says idly, slipping an arm about Raphael’s waist and tugging him close. “Or they shouldn’t, anyway. You should see what they get up to - or, rather, _down _to - for the corporate-mandated dance parties. Never quite understood the purpose of those. Does Heaven have similar?” 

“I- I wouldn’t know, really,” Raphael stutters, hand falling on Asmodeus’ shoulder. He’s stiff as a board. 

Asmodeus shifts his grip, resting his cheek against Raphael’s hair, running a soothing hand over his side. “Relax, love.” 

_I wish you joy, though teardrops burn_

_But if some day you should like to return…_

He tugs gently until Raphael falls into step with him - though there are really no steps to be had in this sort of sweet, slow sway - and leads him into a simple turn, smiling as he draws him back. “Not so hard at all, really, is it?” 

“S’pose not,” Raphael answers, sniffing. “Not- not too bad, no.” 

Asmodeus’ answering snort interrupts his soft humming only briefly. Admittedly, he does very much enjoy this song- typically he prefers the classics, instrumental only, but something about the dulcet harmonies of the Ink Spots could soothe any ill. 

Raphael has relaxed against him by the time the song ends, drifting into silence like the calm just after sunset. With a flick of Asmodeus’ wrist, the record comes to a complete stop as the two of them continue to sway, lost in a world of their own making. 

It’s been a long time coming, really. There have been plenty of realizations, some of them slow and some sudden, but Asmodeus has finally come to the most important one of them: this is where he wants to be, for as long as Raphael will have him. He’s finally caught up, they’ve finally matched paces and he intends to tell him something along those lines. He’d wanted to do it after their dinner, but the change of plans has done nothing to dissuade him thus far. 

Raphael shifts in his arms, ever impatient. “‘re you gonna- put on something else, or-” 

Asmodeus gives a small huff, unable to bite back the tiny smile threatening to curl in the corners of his lips. Always has to ruin the moment. “Of course, dear.” 

He flips the record accordingly, resetting the needle with care. His record player is older than most people walking the streets of Soho, after all, and while he _could _just fix it with a simple whim, it wouldn’t be the _same_. 

The next song is more upbeat, if only slightly. Nothing by the Ink Spots could truly be considered ‘upbeat,’ but this would rank among those few and far between songs if possible. 

As the opening bars pass by, Asmodeus pulls back from their close embrace to take Raphael’s arms, starting to swing them side to side as he puts some distance between them. Asmodeus is beaming wide and his angel begins to laugh. Ah, mission accomplished. 

With a bit of a flourish, Asmodeus leads Raphael into a clumsy under-arm spin. “Where did you get those good looks… those eyes that glow like a star,” he croons along, not bothering to bite back his grin. Raphael tosses his head back to cackle. 

“You are not_ nearly_ as subtle as you think you are,” he says as he’s tugged back into their jaunty turn, grinning with him now. 

“Oh,” Asmodeus says in mock offense, dipping Raphael low. “But don’t you like it?” 

“_Maybe_ I do,” Raphael responds in some half-baked attempt at being coy, chin lifting slightly in defiance. Asmodeus scoffs and returns to the song. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. 

“So tell me,_ won’t you_, Darling, who do you know in Heaven-” 

“_Stop_-” 

Asmodeus steadily ignores him. “-that made you the angel _you are_,” he finishes, the last syllables drawn out almost comically. The way he draws Raphael closer is anything but. 

“Oh, my dear boy,” he pants laughingly as Raphael stumbles towards him. “You have _two left feet_.” 

* * *

And just like that, this little world crafted between the two of them in the quiet space of the bookshop shatters like glass. 

* * *

Raphael stops in his tracks, bumping into Asmodeus as the demon tries to pull him back into the dance. 

There’s a ringing in his ears and he has no idea why [11] . It’d worked, for a moment. He’d been _laughing _not ten seconds ago, yet the dread of the day has wormed its way back into the pit of his stomach with a sudden ferocity that leaves his chest tight and breath coming too quickly. 

The silence between them is anything but comfortable this time, thick with anxiety as he pulls his hands away from Asmodeus’ grip. “I should- I should get going, probably, it’s late-” He’s looking anywhere but at the demon, needing to get out and breathe- the cold air will probably do him some good. 

He doesn’t get very far before Asmodeus and his blasted _gentle _hands are back on him, obvious in their worry. “Raphael-” His voice is tinged with confusion, yes, but mostly that _saccharine concern _and Raphael bristles. 

“Why can’t you just let me bloody _leave_? Can’t you leave well enough alone? Can’t you see that-” He stops himself, sucking in a sharp breath. He doesn’t- the only words he knows for this feeling will shatter this thing they have, their illusion, their little world where they might live peaceably and without concern. The only words he has to speak are words that will _hurt_. 

“What, Raphael? Tell me _what_. I don’t know _what _you’re talking about, we were having a lovely time-” The tone is somewhere between hurt and vexation, his eyes gone wide as he holds out his hands. 

The dam breaks. 

“That _this-_” he gestures between them, a bit frantic now, “-this is all… it’s a _distraction_.” He sees the hurt flicker on Asmodeus’ face and he winces. _Fraternizing._ “No, I don’t- I mean, don’t you _worry_ about it? You said yourself, the other Princes have been watching you, and with the Apocalypse coming… I can’t Fall and- God, what they’d do to _you _if they found out-” He’s pacing now, dragging a hand through his hair. His laugh is a choked, bitter, manic thing. “We’ve been pretending it’s all fine, but it’s _not_. This isn’t- we’re not even ‘sposed to _like _each other, let alone- _slow dance_ in your bloody bookshop. Don’t you _get _that? How can you act like- like everything’s_ fine_?” 

“A _distraction_?” Asmodeus starts before he seems to just- close down. His shoulders tense, hands falling back to his sides. “Everything _is _fine- there’s nothing to worry about! They’re not going to find out, and I- I don’t understand why you so consistently insist on _ruining things,_” he spits, the words boring into Raphael’s chest and sticking like burs. 

“Well- _well,” _Raphael hisses, “how can I _ruin things_ when you don’t even _care_?” The words have been a long time coming, a hurt that has been there since Rome and hasn’t ever had the chance to heal. 

For a moment, Asmodeus looks taken aback. Then, he looks_ furious_. “I don’t _care_?” he snarls, making a wide gesture. “What do you call all of _this_? If I didn’t care, would I truly be here now? Or what about the Inquisition, hm? Or the Crucifixion? The _Flood_, for Christ’s sake- I’ve done nothing _but _care and frankly, the fact that you would even suggest otherwise-” 

“Oh, don’t _start_. How’m I s’posed to know? Every time- _every _time things start getting serious between us, you run. What else am I supposed to think? It’s not like-” his voice cracks, just a bit, but he pushes on, too set on getting his point across to stop, “-it’s not like you_ love me_, Asmodeus.” He barks a laugh, a sad, bitter sound. “‘f course you don’t, you’re a _demon_. I don’t even think you _can _love me, not really, and I’m-” He takes a breath, a shuddering thing. “I’m an idiot for thinking anything else.” 

He stops, breathing heavily with the force of his words. The clawing in his chest hasn’t dissipated, even a little, and the urge to _flee_, to hide away, has only grown tenfold. There’s a sharp ache beneath his ribs and he has to turn away, slipping his coat on as he walks towards the door. This was- stupid. This was a _mistake_. He never should have come here, and he never should have become _comfortable_ here in the first place. 

Asmodeus speaks, his voice like ice. “So I suppose that’s it, then.” 

Raphael pauses, hand poised to yank the shop door aside. “Guess it is.” 

“If you go now, I hope you know there will be no point in coming back.” 

His voice is colder than Heaven itself. 

Raphael’s throat aches, swollen like he’s allergic to bees and has just swallowed the whole hive. “Right.” 

“Then you’ll be needing _this_ back, won’t you? Be a dear and return it.” 

Damnable creature always has to get the last word in, the last sting before the end. 

Raphael cannot look at him - he _cannot_ \- and so he listens, instead, to the rustle of cloth as Asmodeus moves, sees the glitter of a ring flung at his feet. 

“And don’t bother with giving me your own,” Asmodeus finishes. “I’ve no need for it, now that we’re done_ pretending_.” 

Raphael flinches away, but stoops to take the band nonetheless. He could swear the starlight of it nearly burns in the delicate skin of his palm as he walks out the door. 

The bell above jingles. The clock on the wall reads 12:07 AM. 

It is New Year’s Day. 

* * *

As soon as the shop door closes behind Raphael, Asmodeus _breaks_. 

At first, it’s a rather internal thing. He’s staring at the door like he can’t quite believe what’s just happened, while the heartache eats its way up his throat._ I don’t even think you **can** love._ The words reverberate, bouncing around his skull, and he does not understand what brought them on. What brought _any_ of this on. They’d been _fine_. Or at least, he thought they’d been. How _differently_ he’d wanted the night to go- shows what he knows. There’s a reason he’d never done this sort of thing before and this is it exactly. He’s seen what _love_ does to people, a million times over. He’d always scoffed at them, thinking them fools for ever hoping they’d be different from the rest of the miserable wretches. And yet, he’d dared to hope anyway. 

Fool that he is. 

In three purposeful strides he crosses the room, takes the antique record in hand, and shatters it against the corner of the table. With that vain vengeance achieved, he looks at the broken pieces in a sort of listless gaze, a physical reminder of the relationship pulverized to dust at his hands and his feet. 

A half-broken sob is torn from his throat. 

He sinks to the floor with trembling limbs, wrapping his arms around himself as his hands curl into fists. His claws unsheath and dig into his palm, drawing the slightest pinprick of blood. There’s a crushing weight in his chest and he’s surprised to realize that he’s _breathing_, these ragged breaths tearing his lungs from the inside out, and he wonders how can anyone _stand_ this? 

He sits there, cold and alone, reminded of nothing more than the searing ache and acidic stink of burnt feathers, and - for the first time in a very long time, nearly as long as he can remember - Asmodeus cries. 

* * *

There’s nothing more, after that. 

* * *

**-London, England, 1st January, 1990-**

As soon as he is safely back in the chilled embrace of his Bentley, Raphael shatters. 

It’s a very nice and accurate way of putting it, which here means “not very nice or accurate at all.” 

He pulls away from the kerb and onto the street, driving more through muscle memory and the belief that he won’t crash than through any actual _skill_. He was never the best driver, anyways. But the Bentley understands, and knows where to take him now. 

He can hardly go home, can he? Where would home even be? It’s not his flat, empty except for his plants. Certainly not Heaven. Raphael is the _wandering bark_, now, that ship lost at sea aching to come home with only the north star to guide him. The only home he knows is by- by _his_ side. And Raphael can hardly go crawling back, not after that show. His nostrils flare, the air desperately sucked in stuttering in his chest. 

He doesn’t even understand what happened, really. 

All he knows is that he is very scared, and very angry, and very, very _alone_. And he has nowhere else to go that he won’t see Asmodeus’ glare lurking in every corner. His corporation feels_ itchy_, like an ill-fitting wool sweater knitted by one’s well-meaning grandmother, stretched thin and too tight around him and it’s not _behaving _as it shouldand he cannot make it _quit_. Distantly he’s aware that he knows what this_ is_, in the sort of way an outside observer would look on from a two-way mirror, clipboards and pens and papers in place, but he can’t make any connection other than that; the mortal, _animal_ brain of this form too busy with the gut-reaction instinct to _run very far away_ and it’s decided to take the rest of him with it. 

Raphael ends up back in his office at the hospital very much the same way he ended up at the bookshop. He ends up in his chair behind his desk clutching at a coat that isn’t his in much the same way he’d collapsed onto Asmodeus’ couch. He brings its collar to his nose. 

It smells like him. 

It’s this simple fact that tips Raphael over the edge, really. What was he_ thinking_. He never should have gone there- he _knows_ to hide himself away when he feels one of these attacks coming on, and yet he’d selfishly desired company and went to Asmodeus anyways. He should have never involved him. He should have never let him _see him_ like that. If there’s been one thing Raphael’s been certain of, it’s how uncomfortable Asmodeus is with emotions, especially emotions as explosive as these. Whether they’re his or some unfortunate human’s that’s been around, the moment something more than surface-deep arises, he shuts down completely. He puts up his walls, impenetrable, untouchable, pulling away like a snail into its shell. 

This time had been different, and now because of Raphael’s own idiot heart it’ll never happen again. He can’t go back to face him after that. He can’t even remember everything he’d said, now, but he knows it hadn’t been _great_. 

He sniffs, and draws the coat closer. Something from the inside pockets stabs at his hands as he does, in the way one would when catching the angle of an unexpected envelope in the meaty center of one’s palm. He’s not sure what compels him to unfold the coat, carefully pulling out a folded up and yellowing letter. He squints at the stamp, confusion mounting at the tiny printed date boasting the year 1915 and rising to a fever’s pitch at the familiar address drenched in bright red ink that reads “RETURN TO SENDER”. His stuttering breath calms itself as he takes it in his hand, his harried mind latching onto the distraction with a sort of relief. 

A part of him wants to_ throw it away_, the implications of its presence settling heavy in his gut. Whatever’s written in it, Asmodeus hadn’t ever given it to him despite the many opportunities they’d had in the more than seventy years since it’d been - apparently - sent. The paper is brittle, brittle, brittle under his fingertips. 

This, too, smells like Asmodeus. 

And perhaps it’s his frazzled post-attack haze, or his delicate emotional state, or the need to do _something_ with his twitching hands, but Raphael thumbs the sealed flap with an anxious gesture. It’s not like Asmodeus would be around any time soon to complain about it, really, and if he hadn’t wanted Raphael to find it- 

It’s best Raphael not consider the inner working of Asmodeus’ mind, probably. He’d get lost in there. He slips the tip of his thumb under the seal and tears through the envelope like tissue paper. 

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting. He certainly didn’t expect- this. 
    
    
    October 25th, 1917
    
    
    My Beloved,
    
        It has been some time - just over fifty years, now that I consider it in full. I have written and discarded at least a dozen letters; none of them have been quite adequate enough to capture what I mean. In truth not a second goes by that I do not think of you. 
    
        Do you remember, my dear, that night we spent in Paris? There could be said that there was almost something in the air that night, some sort of strange quality to the water, the very soil beneath our feet; but, then, being around you always seems to bring that feeling. It must have been- 1788, yes, you brought me out of the Bastille. We went for crepes and wine, and afterwards fell into bed together. It was all rather lovely. I seem to recall having done something to earn your ire, though what it was I still today cannot say. But that remains beside the point. I merely realized that I had never apologized. 
    
        I've realized there are several instances of such misunderstandings that I have never apologized for. Yet again, I know not what I have done to drive us apart this time, though surely it must have been something to anger you terribly. I do not have it in me to shroud my words in double entendre and subtlety tonight. The fact of the matter is: I miss you- in a quite simple, desperate human way; I miss you more than I had believed possible, and the desire to see you once again is stronger than any I have felt before. Your company, your voice, the way your eyes alight when you smile, the gleam of sunlight off your hair. Most clearly I remember your eyes, your soft skin, the delicate press of your lips, and the way your lashes flutter in ecstasy.
    
        I have been running about with all manner of men; mad men, poets, politicians, kings and noblemen, and yet none of them compare to the light of your countenance. My life seems dull and gray without you in it. I am in America, now- you have driven me to this. The Americans are a terribly uncouth people. Not even the truly extraordinary amounts of fun they manufacture is enough for me to forgive them. 
    
        I would like to think that you are perfectly safe. That you have, perhaps, returned Home. Unfortunately, I am afraid I have known you for too long and too dear to think you would stand by and watch whilst the humans destroy themselves. I have seen the soldiers returned from war to their loved ones; some of them in tears and sweet embraces, others in boxes. I know well that you and I need not fear of any such earthly death and yet still the thought fills me with a sort of dread heretofore unknown to me. Do try not to get caught up in the thick of it, won't you?
    
        My darling heart, my better nature, my angel- I pray (ironic, is it not?) this letter will find you safe, and I do so fervently, ardently apologize for all that I have done that would cause you to turn from me. You will know where to find me, should you wish to rekindle our friendship. I hope that you will.  
    
      
    
    <strike>All My Love,</strike>  
    
    <strike>Love,</strike>  
    
    <strike>Yours, Always,</strike>  
    
    -A  
    
      
    
    

The letter falls to Raphael’s desktop, along with the hand that held it. Its twin is firmly entangled in the angel’s hair, tugging slightly at the red locks before it drops to drag over his jaw with a sniff. Oh, he’s been completely and utterly fucking _blind_. He’s made a grand misjudgement, a colossal cock-up. There’s a sinking feeling in his chest, dragging him into the deep. 

Raphael had thought that Asmodeus didn’t love. And he doesn’t, not really, not _easily_. Not commonly like his Virtues or “neutrally” like Gabriel. Asmodeus, the Prince of Hell whose Dominion lies over Lust, loves without _speaking it_ just like the angel he used to be. And Asmodeus loves_ him_. 

Or he did. After tonight… 

Raphael had thought this- arrangement of theirs a fling, and distanced himself accordingly to protect them both. Asmodeus didn’t do_ touchy feely_ things, and they both knew it. He’d often_ lamented _the interference of emotion where humans were involved and even after all this time Raphael still hasn’t forgotten the feeling of well-slept contentment shattered by waking alone in that Roman inn. He was content to be nothing more than occasional friends and allies, a lunch date, even coworkers if he had to be. Nothing more. He could have lived with that. He did live with that. 

It _hurt_, but he lived. 

Then there was that issue with the church and Asmodeus pushing him away, claiming he “went too fast”- and what did that even _mean_, when not even twenty years later they were nearly in each others’ pockets? Sure, things may have... changed, the last decade or so, but he’d thought - he had assumed it hadn’t been genuine. He didn’t think Asmodeus _meant it_, not really. Not like that. 

But here’s the _proof_ of it, seventy years old and seventy years too late. Raphael folds the letter delicately, slipping it back into its home at the inner pocket of Asmodeus’ coat. 

It’s been a long time since Raphael has thought of Asmodeus the same as Aziraphale, six thousand years of differences teaching him better, and yet he finds himself with the awful realization that he’s hurt him all over again. And this time he hadn’t even _meant_ to. 

He still doesn’t even know what set him off. The entire exchange is a blur of panic, lashing out like some kind of cornered beast with the pent up stress of the day fueling it. One lapse in judgement, and he’s ruined the best thing in his life. It wasn’t like he ever thought they had a real chance at happiness, after all, but they could have- 

They could have had _something_. 

Just then, there’s the gentle click of his office door opening, and Raphael is startled from his thoughts and also very nearly from his still-jittery corporation. Temperance comes through the doorway, arms full of paperwork no doubt in need of filing, having the grace to not even startle when she noted his presence. Worry creases her delicate brow. 

“Raphael? What are you doing still here? I thought you had a date.” Her eyes search his face, and she delicately puts the stack of paperwork aside. “Are you quite alright? Is it the boy, still?” 

He sniffs, shoving the coat aside. Temperance approaches. 

“No, no, it’s not- no. Could ask the same of you, though, shouldn’t you be- out?” The last thing he needed at the moment was to be reminded of Abel, or his ill-fated ‘date’. But Temperance is not one to be distracted or deflected so easily. 

“I didn’t feel like staying out with the others, but all the same I did not want to go home,” she responds, pushing onwards. “Raphael, what is wrong. What has happened?” 

“D’you recall that oath we took, Temperance? How we swore to do no harm? S’funny, the things humans make ceremony of, but-” he passes a hand over his face tiredly, knotting his fingers into his hair as he stares down at the letter in front of him. “I think I’ve broken that oath.” 

* * *

**-London, England, 2007 AD-**

“Phone call for you, Doctor Bliant.” 

Raphael looks up from her clipboard, glasses almost sliding off of her nose entirely. “What’s that?” 

Phoebe - still here after nearly twenty years - has the phone pressed tight against her shoulder, lips pursed tiredly. They were all working overtime, tonight. “Phone call. He says it’s important.” 

She squints at her, perplexed - after her last visitor, who could _possibly_ be calling this time of night asking for _her, specifically_ \- and Phoebe just shrugs. “Think it’s best you heard ‘im, doc.” 

Well, that was about as clear as mud. She frowns at her, but takes the phone anyways. 

_"It's me."_

Raphael almost drops the receiver in shock. Her heart very nearly skips a beat.  


The demon's voice on the other end of the line sounds... Cautious. Nearing haggard. If Raphael is correct, _he_ has also had a harrowing night. She takes in a breath. 

"Asmodeus," she says, the name almost a sigh on her lips. It was... unexpectedly good to hear his voice. How long had it been since they last spoke? Dare she even wonder? "I hadn't expected- I mean, I didn’t think I’d hear from you. I’m assuming this is about the, er…” 

_"The Antichrist. **It is**."_

* * *

1 They typically greet each other with a secret handshake that only they can parse, and Asmodeus regularly refers to Kindness as ‘the K-Man,’ at the Virtue’s behest. Raphael tries to not be too jealous. [ return to text ] 

2 This isn’t strictly true, though Raphael isn’t aware of it. Diligence has been doing the paperwork for him for the last 6000 years and he’s rather exhausted by this point. [ return to text ] 

3 Of course, how were the Virtues to know Asmodeus’ comment in the 1960s was not meant to be taken literally? [ return to text ] 

4 This meal typically consists of a variety of food items that should never be paired together, except for the eggs, toast, and bacon. [ return to text ] 

5 Raphael had just said Asmodeus’ heart was a blackened, shriveled little thing just the week before. [ return to text ] 

6 Archangels and _archangels_ are, contrary to popular belief, not the same thing. Archangels were, technically, Seraphim, while _archangels_ with the little_ a_ were barely higher ranked than the base angel. [ return to text ] 

7 He tried to convince Asmodeus to donate this to a museum. It’d been snatched from his hands before he could even finish the sentence. [ return to text ] 

8 Asmodeus is not overly fond of the Beatles. [ return to text ] 

9 At some point in the last few centuries, Michael had decided that _he_ simply fit him better. Though he had no connection to the idea of manhood- in fact, he’d become rather fond of the term lesbian. [ return to text ] 

10 The Apocalypse had been scheduled to start the summer of 1990 on the dot, but due to budget cuts had been pushed back to ‘somewhere around the late 2010s, probably.’ [ return to text ] 

11 The why, of course, had everything to do with Asmodeus’ particular phrasing and the last dance they’d shared. This isn’t something Raphael will realize for quite some time, when he’s tossing and turning in bed quite unable to sleep. [ return to text ] 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry again for the wait!
> 
> for the song raphael plays, we were sort of envisioning [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nvtV4fvNJpY). as for the ones they dance to... y'all can hunt it down it's fun! but who do you know in heaven literally started this whole thing and was the original title of the fic jfasdfasdf we've been WAITING for this moment so long.
> 
> as always hit us up on tumblr (@raphhaels and @monsternobility)! hope you enjoy!


	8. filler episode of tng

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello darlings! we hope the new year's been treating you well thus far. things are going great and we're chugging along through the show chapters slowly but surely. next update should be february 10th!
> 
> this chapter we also begin "fixing neilman's bullshit" and thus raph uses she/her leading up to and through the nannying situation so it's not a man in a dress joke bc that was very :/. we also kept some book elements that just made more sense like warlock being a baby instead of a preschool aged kid and that they were later tutors.

**-11 Years Before the End of the World-**

There are many forms of torture in the pits of Hell. One might be forced to eat worms, or strung up over a pit of boiling oil once their skin has been peeled back, or they might even be sat down in front of a radio and made to listen to_ Ice Ice Baby _for an eternity and a half. For his part, Hastur has seen at least a thousand forms of torture in his time, and admired only nine hundred and ninety-eight of them if he's being entirely honest. Out of those nine hundred and ninety-eight impressive tortures, he doesn't think any of them quite manage to live up to the mix of dread and annoyance he feels whenever he has to interact with _Prince Asmodeus_. 

Of all the Princes, Hastur finds his patience wears the thinnest with him. At least Beelzebub knows what ze is, what all of them are, and ze just gives them their orders and sends them on their jolly way. Asmodeus, on the other hand, is just a _pest_. And all of them know it too, except their Lord and Master who sees him as something of his _favorite pet_ [1]. Now, Hastur isn't one to question his king, but he just doesn't get it. Nothing good about that one, he always says to Ligur. He's just too _much_. Always going on about something, looking so damn smug when he turns his way. It's like he still holds a grudge over one measly comment from thousands of years ago. Before the Original Sin! And after that, well, there just wasn't any hope, was there? It wasn't a surprise when Asmodeus got promoted along with Amon and Belphegor and the rest, leaving Hastur and the rest of the Dukes in the dust. Still stung though, getting passed over for _him_. 

Needless to say, it isn't with any enthusiasm that Hastur accepts his assignment to partially deliver the Antichrist with Ligur [2]. 

The first thing he thinks upon popping up in the graveyard, is that humans haven’t changed much at all. Last time he was here, some hundred years ago, they had these things too, and in fact he’s pretty sure some of these stones were here then too. He doesn’t get what all the fuss is about. It’s not like there’s anything but their meat sacks in those coffins. 

The next is that Asmodeus is _late_. 

“‘e should be here by now,” Ligur grouses, voicing his thoughts in a way that makes Hastur feel rather _pleased_. 

“Prob’ly busy with goin’ _boating,_ or somesuch,” says Hastur snidely. His tone suggests that boating is something so terrible, so vile, so _human_ that it’s simply unthinkable even for a demon. And he’s right. 

Ligur hums his agreement, lip curled in disgust. 

From the basket, the Antichrist gives a quiet _coo_. He’d fallen asleep at some point from his father’s throne room to here and he’d been perfectly well behaved since. The thing is, he’s not _supposed_ to be a well behaved baby. Hastur isn’t sure what to make of it. He’s not one to question his Master’s plans, but he’d reckoned there’d be spitting of hellfire or the calling forth of legions with his mighty scream. So far, he’s just… a _baby_. Hastur’s never liked babies much, ‘cept for late-night snacks. 

In the distance, headlights light up the motorway that runs along the far edge of the graveyard, cutting through the fog of the night. The two demons squint. 

“‘Ere he comes now, that dandy among demons [3].” 

“The Heaven’s ‘e ridin’ in on?” Ligur asks, just barely making out the large blocky… _thing _in the distance. 

“‘S’a bus. Horseless. Don’t think they had those, last time you was here.” 

Ligur grunts, masking his half-step back from the oncoming vehicle as an attempt to find a more comfortable position at Hastur’s other side. In reality, he’s putting some distance between himself and the bus so that if anything goes wrong, it won’t be him that’s in its path. 

“Look at ‘im,” Hastur spits. He passes his cigarette back to Ligur. “Been up here too long, ‘e has. Livin’ like them. Collectin’ _books_. Never does any _real _work, not Below anyhow.” 

Anyone who’s _anyone_ knows that if there is one thing a demon does not do (aside from boating), it’s _read_. 

The bus grinds to a slow, creaky stop, and hisses like a great dragon. Its driver does not know why he has driven so far for so long into the night, and when he thinks about it he will not know why he is staying. Inside, the bus’ only passenger stands. 

* * *

Asmodeus has never grown any more fond of public transportation, still finding them absolutely insufferable. But his options are limited and at the least, this bus ride had just been him and the rather confused driver. 

He can’t imagine what he’s supposed to be doing _here_. Hastur and Ligur aren’t among his seventy-two armies, though with the impending Apocalypse he supposes that things may have gotten a bit hectic down there. He wouldn’t know, having avoided Hell rather skillfully for the past few years. It’s just gotten a bit too crowded for his tastes. 

The dreadful thing slows to a jerky stop, and Asmodeus sighs and gathers his things. It simply wouldn’t do to forget his hat. It’s a good hat, after all. He makes his way up the empty aisles to the head, where the driver - a man who has had quite a night, no doubt - opens the doors automatically. 

Before stepping off the bus, Asmodeus turns to the man. “Stay here,” he commands in a voice that leaves no room for questioning. When the man nods, a bit dazedly, he pats his shoulder good-naturedly. Or bad-naturedly, as it were. “There’s a good chap.” 

Now to deal with the Dukes. 

The best part about his promotion hadn’t been the throne, the prestige, or even the dragon. It was solidly no longer having to deal directly with _Hastur and Ligur_. Always side-by-side, those two, never one without the other. It made things terribly irritating, truly, considering they’re both completely incompetent and only manage to make each other _worse_. Why Asmodeus is being tasked with meeting Beelzebub’s Dukes instead of his own, he’ll never know. May even bring it up next meeting as an example of how Hell’s been going downhill the last century. 

“All ‘ail Satan,” Hastur barks. Ligur echoes the sentiment, a basket in hand. Asmodeus doffs his hat, clearly taking advantage of the dramatic lighting cast from the bus. 

“Oh, every night,” he replies easily, mock sincerity dripping from the words. “Terribly sorry to be so late. You know how public transit is.” 

As a matter of fact, Asmodeus is well aware neither of them know how public transit is. It’s fine. Just something else to lord over their heads, which he’s rather fond of doing. Ligur shifts uncomfortably, eyes flicking to the waiting bus and back. 

Hastur eyes Asmodeus meaningfully. Asmodeus blinks back at him, as innocently as any demon can manage. 

“_What_?” He can’t fathom why he’s being ogled like some sort of circus sideshow. He’s _shown up, _after all, hasn’t he? Isn’t that all he’s supposed to be doing? The request had been quite clear, strictly to come to the graveyard at this hour. Unless he’d missed another memo after he’d left- 

Oh, right. Asmodeus gives a longsuffering sigh. No one had ever told him being a demon would involve so many useless rituals. Well, they might’ve. It’s not like he’d remember, anyway. 

“Ah, yes. That ‘deeds’ business.” He straightens himself, just slightly, keeping the wiggles to a minimum. “What was it, again? _‘Let us recount the deeds of the day’?_ Well, go on then.” He gives a little wave of his hand, waiting patiently for whatever inane thing is surely about to come out of their mouths. 

Hastur clears his throat to begin. 

“I ‘ave tempted a priest. As ‘e walked down the street ‘n saw the pretty girls in the sun, I put Doubt into his min-” 

Asmodeus interrupts with a yawn. “Yes, quite. Wonderful, job well done, and all that. Although, that’s hardly creative, is it? Been done before, I would know.” He loses himself in the pleasant memory a moment, index finger testing the point of a canine, before shaking his head. “Surely we don’t need to go over the entire spiel, we’re busy demons and times are changing, aren’t they? Now then, what _is _all this about.” 

Hastur looks rather like he’s swallowed a mouthful of Beelzebub’s flies. Beside him, Ligur takes over. 

“This,” he says. The basket, long forgotten, sways menacingly in his arms. “_This’s_ what it’s all about.” 

A tiny sound emerges from within the confines of the wicker ark. Asmodeus swallows. 

“Oh,” he says, simply. “Oh, dear.” 

Twenty years came and went so terribly quickly. Asmodeus shifts on his feet, hands wringing. “So this is the, ah-”  
  
“Yes,” says Hastur maliciously. 

“And _he_ wants _me _to do the-” 

“_Yes,_” hisses Ligur. 

“Oh, dear,” Asmodeus repeats, rather weakly. “I suppose times really _are _changing, aren’t they?” 

“Yeah,” Ligur cackles. “They’re comin’ to an end, for a start.” 

“Right,” he agrees faintly. “Well, if that’s all.” 

Asmodeus takes the basket containing a soft blanket, a single Satanic baby toy of some description and exactly one now-fussing Antichrist, wanting to get away from here as quickly as possible and get the job done. 

He has a call he needs to make. 

* * *

Asmodeus settles back into the bus, basket sat safely and securely in the seat next to him, fully prepared for a quiet ride all the way to- _Tadfield_. Not the sort of place you’d expect the Antichrist to be born, is it? Seems a little backwater, truth be told, but he knows the plan, and knows the reasoning behind it- 

The bus lights flicker, and wink out, a chill descends, and all at once Asmodeus is made aware of something very very familiar and very very bad. 

“Your _opinion _on it does not matter.” 

The voice nearly makes Asmodeus jump out of his skin, head whipping to find the source. It happens to be the bus driver, though Asmodeus is more than certain that heads aren’t quite supposed to do _that_. The human neck only has so many vertebrae, and none of them are meant to twist like an owl’s. Not to mention the ghost of horns, flicker of eyes the same shade as divine blood. Asmodeus pales as the words register; the thought that _he _would be able to read his thoughts- 

He shudders, pushing down the slight horror at the myriad of things he might’ve heard over the years. Best not consider it [3]. 

The urge to stand and bow is only barely suppressed in this moving vehicle, and Asmodeus instead reaches out to brace a hand on the basket as if Lucifer is going to get picky about how well he’s taking care of his son. He makes do with a slight tilt of his head, removing his hat permanently now (he _hates_ wearing hats. Why did he wear a hat tonight?) and dropping his gaze a moment in deference. The human’s visage has settled more solidly into that more familiar glower of the King of Hell and Asmodeus briefly resolves to wipe the poor man’s memory once he’s at his destination. He’ll wake as if from a good sleep, limber in a way only possession can manage. 

“My Lord,” Asmodeus offers. 

“_Ashmedai,_” Lucifer responds. “Is my son behaving himself?” 

The child in the basket beings to squall. Asmodeus winces. “Decidedly not.” 

“_Good_. We have such great faith in you -_ I_ have such great faith in you. You’ve earned this, darling.” 

It’s terribly unnerving, having Lucifer’s dulcet praise emerge from this mortal throat. Asmodeus bites back a shiver and nods. “Of course,” he says. 

“I don’t need to tell you what will happen if you_ fail_, do I?” 

If Asmodeus’ grip on the basket was tight before, it is now white-knuckled. “Oh, no, definitely not.” 

“I knew we could rely on you, my Prince. You already know what you need to do. This is the big one, Ashmedai. Your armies will be expecting you soon. _I_ will be expecting you_ sooner._” 

And then just like that, the bus driver’s neck returns to normal with a sickening twist, the lights blink back on, and Asmodeus considers briefly that Satan has a bit of a flair for the dramatic. He already knew what he had to do, after all. What was the point of _possessing his bus driver_? 

He considers this only briefly, however, for Asmodeus has at least some amount of self-preservation instinct. 

* * *

There are many things the humans created that Raphael finds herself thankful for - memory foam mattresses, for one, as well as vintage cars and Golden Girls - but the greatest among these, she contemplates, is _coffee_. With how accustomed her corporation has become to sleep, and how little her work _allows her that_ [4], she’s fairly certain she wouldn’t survive the day without it. 

It’s nice to have a human routine. This is hers. Her break allows her just enough time to walk to the nice little coffee shop across the street from the hospital with its exposed piping and wooden decor, never mind the fact that it most certainly shouldn’t be open at this ungodly hour. She’s just settling down with her late-night order and a newspaper when she feels a faint _pop _in her ear, everything going slightly muffled before a low ringing fills her hearing. 

Raphael sighs, shutting her eyes with slightly grit teeth, knowing exactly what that means. It isn’t like this corporation suffers from intermittent bouts of hearing loss. 

When she looks up, Gabriel is standing beside her. 

“Raphael!” he exclaims, _entirely _too loudly for this time of night. The few humans milling about at this hour startle, glancing over in their direction. Raphael brings her hand to her temples, already sensing a headache beginning to brew. 

“Gabriel,” she offers, trying for more cheer than she’s capable of producing. Her brother doesn’t seem to notice. He rarely does, with these sorts of things. Not the best with social cues, that one. “What a surprise.” 

“Mind if I join you?” Case in point, Gabriel is already seating himself across from her without any clear regard for whether she minds or not. She rolls her eyes with a muttered ‘by all means,’ and for just the barest moment they sit together in silence as Raphael sips her coffee. 

It’s broken by Gabriel’s nose scrunching like it’s just caught wind of something particularly unpleasant. “_What_ is _that_?” 

Raphael blinks, setting down her cup. 

“S’coffee. You should try it some time. Humans made it from- coffee berries? ‘Bout three hundred years ago, give or take. Little self-explanatory, really, unoriginal on the naming scheme, but-” 

Gabriel cuts her off with a tiny gesture. “Think I’ll pass. _We_ do not sully the temples of our celestial bodies with… _gross matter_.” 

Raphael raises a brow and pointedly takes another drink. “More for me, then. Noticed you do like to ‘sully the temple of your body’ with-” she pauses, thinking better of what she’d been about to say and switching tracks at the last moment, “- nice clothes, though.” She gestures at his suit that, were he a human that’d actually bothered to pay for it, would’ve cost as much as a decently sized family home. 

Gabriel looks disappointed. “No need to get _tetchy_, Raphael, honestly. The clothes aren’t terrible, I like the clothes- pity they’re not going to be around much longer.” 

Raphael almost chokes. “_Already_? It can’t be-” But thinking about it, she realizes it is the right time, the exact date she’s been aware of for quite some time now and had pointedly pushed to some dark corner of her mind filled with cobwebs and a sign reading ‘Things Not to Think About’. 

“Oh, but it can! We’ve got_ reliable intel_-” he leans close conspiratorially, looming over the too-small table “-that_ things_ are afoot. Things involving the demon Asmodeus, one of the Adversary’s own generals. I know you’ve met - _obviously_. Seem to recall you having some difficulties with him in- where was it again? Rages?” 

Raphael opens her mouth to argue, but Gabriel beats her to the punch with a raised hand. “Nothing you couldn’t handle, of course! Just interesting, is all. He’s been here from the very start. So have you.” 

Raphael gives him a smile that’s closer a sneer, if one were paying attention. Gabriel, of course, isn’t. “Right. ‘Course. _Obviously_. Very sneaky, I am. In a- a _holy _sort of way. Not the snakey kind. You know me. Doesn’t even know I’m here.” 

Her brother pulls a face that could almost be pitying. Raphael wants, very distinctly, to wipe it off his face. The smugness is preferable by leaps and bounds. Before he can open his mouth to say anything that would_ truly_ ruin her night, she speaks. “So I’m to keep an eye out for him, am I? Thwart his wiles, and whatnot?” 

She doesn’t bother to mention how impossible that would be, seeing as they haven’t spoken in seventeen years.  
  
“Oh, no,” Gabriel counters. “No, absolutely not. It’s all going according to plan, of course. We just thought it would be... _prudent_. To let you know beforehand. We’ll be expecting you before the end. Sooner rather than later. You understand, of course.” 

“Of course,” Raphael echoes. Of _course_. Of fucking course. She looks down at her abandoned newspaper forlornly. 

Won’t have these, much longer. 

Gabriel beams at her. It’s like standing in front of floodlights. It’s downright exhausting. “Right! Good talk, Raphael, glad we understand each other. We’ll be seeing you soon. Better dust off the old trumpet.” [5]

He stands from his seat, pausing to take her hand as if they’re bloody_ friends_. “It’ll get easier,” he says. “When we win, you won’t ever have to think about him again! He’ll be destroyed! It gets better.” 

He pats her hand, and then he’s gone. 

Raphael stands a bit dazedly, tossing the last of her coffee in the bin. She’s suddenly found herself unable to finish it, stomach twisted into knots. She’d known this was coming. She’d known. It still hadn’t been enough to prepare her for the sudden swelling nausea at the thought of- all of _this _ending. Coffee shops, hospitals, late night television, all the little things the humans had come up with over the years that made life worth sticking around for. 

As she pushes her way out of the shop, her break nearly over, she decides she’ll have to do _something _about it. 

* * *

As it turns out, her _doing something about it_ becomes instead a phone call from an old friend. 

* * *

To say Raphael is _nervous_ would be an understatement of Gabrielic proportions. She’d arrived early and in the span of the thirty minutes she’s been here, she’s gotten in and out of the Bentley at least five times, gone to their bench and back to lean noncommittally against her car before the jitters get the better of her again and bring her back to walking. She’s taken to pacing around a particularly round curve of the pond at the moment, a hand going to tug at her hair occasionally. _Fussing_. She needs to quit fussing. 

This is nothing. They were still friends after the_ last_ fight they had, weren’t they? Oh, they’d spent some time apart, but she’s always found him again. Or he’s found her. Or vice versa, or however that works. At the moment she can’t possibly say. And this- this hasn’t even been as long as that, really. This was a blip on their impressive shared timeline, a bit of spilled ink. They’ve been apart way longer than seventeen years before, sometimes managing centuries back in the early days before the Arrangement. 

It isn’t like she broke his heart or anything. Asmodeus always bounces back and she has it on good authority that he’s been doing just fine and dandy. 

Just like a hard candy Christmas, actually. 

She doesn’t have time to contemplate this fact further, for as she looks, the bench -_ their _bench - is no longer vacant. 

He sits on the farther side, as he always does, flicking pieces of bread to the ducks as he very pointedly does not look in her direction. He has to have noticed her by now, it’s not like she’s being inconspicuous, which leaves only the horrible implication that he’s simply _ignoring _her. This isn’t new, in fact it’s what they’d done for hundred of years when the Arrangement was little more than a temporary truce between colleagues. So it’s strictly business, then. No friendly… reconnecting, or catching up, or anything. A small part of her had _hoped_\- 

But, of course, this isn’t about _them_. She supposes that’s more than fair, after the last time they’d seen each other. 

Well, there’s nothing for it, then. Raphael has wasted enough time just standing and staring, gaping like a damned fish. 

She settles into the open space next to him on their bench, leaving a respectable distance between them that one would expect of the Marianas Trench, and she waits. 

Asmodeus is seemingly content to feed the ducks and occasional swan in a silence that’s masquerading as comfortable but is really quite awkward. 

He looks good, she reflects, and then kicks herself for it. As if he’s ever _not _looked good. _Looking good_ is par for the course when it comes to being the Prince of Lust. 

It’s some time before he speaks. 

“My dear girl, you look absolutely _dreadful_.” 

Raphael squints at him in abject disgruntlement, but unfortunately, he has a point even if she’s fairly certain he hasn’t looked at her even once. She turns her gaze out over the water, folding her arms over her chest defensively. 

“‘M fine. Been fine. Definitely have a normal sleeping schedule.” Definitely haven’t been working away tirelessly for seventeen years waiting for him. 

Best get to the point. Ripping off the plaster, so to speak. “You mentioned on the phone...” she says. “Are you _sure_ it was-” 

“There was little room for doubt.” 

He tosses the rest of the crust into the water and watches the horde descend. 

She’s almost worried they may turn on each other, next, and they’ll be witness to a grisly feather-strewn bloodbath right there in the water. She can picture it now. The scene of the crime. A murder most fowl. 

Asmodeus sniffs. “I knew, of course, the intricacies of the- the _plan_. An American diplomat, as it always is in these types of scenarios.” Raphael can’t think of another instance regarding an American diplomat, but she kindly doesn’t mention this. “You know, I rather thought since my time in the colonies that the Americans may have something to do with the End. It’s all that _media _they consume.” 

“Wasn’t the media one of yours?” 

“Let’s not debate this now.” He turns to look at her for the first time. If this act has any effect on him, it doesn’t show. She tries not to feel disappointed. 

He’s _beautiful._

“I do think _your side_ will win, of course.” 

“I- _what?_” The words are sticking in her mouth, tongue thick and ungainly as she tries to regain her balance. 

“Oh, Heaven will triumph over Hell, we’ve all known for eons, of course. _Not _that you’ll find many willing to admit it.” His eyes flick over her face, then away again. “According to yours, it’s supposed to be _lovely_. I’m not sure it will be. Not for me or mine, at any rate.” 

This shocks her out of her stupor. “And you’re just willing to- to _take_ that? I find that hard to believe.” 

“Well, it is according to _Her Plan_, isn’t it? It’s_ ineffable_. Do I spy an angel_ rebelling?_” 

His eyes flash, something of old fire there, a quiet amusement. Raphael swallows. 

“It’s not- It’s not about rebelling. It’s about what’s _right_.” 

“My dear Raphael, do you truly hope to sway me or anyone else with what is _good _and _right?_” Asmodeus laughs, the sound almost cruel, standing up and brushing breadcrumbs from his palms. “No, no. I think not.” 

Raphael rockets up beside him, jogging to catch up. “Just- just _listen_, a moment, won’t you? What was the point of calling me here if not to _talk _about this-” 

“Truly, I haven’t the faintest idea,” Asmodeus responds flatly. Raphael puts herself directly in his path. 

“Listen to me. It’s- I know Hell has all the greatest composers, but what about- if this goes down, there won’t be any more-” she grasps at the bottom of the barrel of Asmodeus’ interests and comes up blank. “-any, faux fur, or, or gaudy patterns- none of those little restaurants where they know you, no crosswords, no more Regency silver snuffboxes-” 

“I am a _Prince of Hell,_ I cannot just-” 

Raphael perseveres. “No more old books, smutty or otherwise, or old book_shops_\- no more of those _hideous _Hawaiian shirts with the parrots on them.” 

Asmodeus takes a step back from her, affronted. His hand raises to his chest, protectively clutching at the pattern of his own hideous shirt. “You wouldn’t _dare._” 

“_I _wouldn’t! But Heaven would! Will! And think, for just a moment, about if they _don’t _just kill you lot off! Idon’t know about you, but _I _for one don’t want to spend eternity with- with- _celestial harmonies_.” 

All of a sudden, Asmodeus looks nothing more than very lost and very tired. 

“It’s a part of the _Divine Plan, _Raphael. You can’t honestly expect me - _me -_ to help… _you. _This was- a_ courtesy call,_ that’s all, one last hurrah for old time’s sake. If you think we can just-” 

“_We_ can,” she says, resolutely. Asmodeus shakes his head. 

“No, we _can’t_. It’s just not the way of things! This war has been planned for- six _thousand_ years. There’s no _changing it_. You’ll fall, and I’ll-” he cuts himself off abruptly. “It just wouldn’t do.” 

“Come _on_,” she slouches, head thrown back as she groans in dramatics. “I’m not going to fall. Would’ve done that ages ago if they cared.” 

“_No_,” he repeats, firm and unquestionable. 

Without her noticing, they’ve already reached her Bentley. There’s a wheel clamp attached to one of the tyres, but she has no qualms about getting rid of that once they’re on their way. 

She sighs. She’s known Asmodeus for- longer than she can possibly fathom and she knows that if she keeps pushing, he’ll only double down on his position. But it’s been… unexpectedly nice, to see him again. Hear his voice. Bicker with him, again. Before she can think better of it she’s already opening her mouth. “Asmodeus, I- I’ve missed y-” 

“_Don’t_ do that.” 

Raphael sucks in a breath, nodding. Right. She deserved that. “At least let me take you to lunch. Old time’s sake, you said.” 

Asmodeus eyes her suspiciously, like he knows exactly what she’s up to and is weighing the pros and cons. Eventually, he seems to settle. “Fine, but be a dear and pick up the bill, won’t you?” 

Raphael rolls her eyes. 

They both pile into the Bentley and the traffic warden that’d been circling the car jumps at least a meter back as the clamp falls off. Asmodeus sneers, and the man’s notebook bursts into flame. 

And then they’re gone. 

* * *

Lunch at the Ritz is sumptuous, scrumptious, and Asmodeus takes as much time savoring it as is humanly or demonically possible. He does not spare any expense and does his best not to think about how long it’s been since he’s set foot here. The last time had been under happier circumstances, after all. 

Or at least, less lonely ones. 

Raphael dutifully pays for their meal and he doesn’t stop the smug little smirk from dancing on his lips, though it only earns him a withering look. Honestly, he thinks he’s being more than fair, considering. She’s the one who offered lunch in the first place. 

By the time they find themselves back at his shop - Asmodeus deciding to invite her in, against his better judgement - they’ve already agreed on engaging in extraordinarily large amounts of alcohol and trying to forget the whole thing; or, at least, render it more palatable. 

Raphael has gotten it in herself to descend into trying to _convince_ him again. He rebuffs her as he sets about unlocking the shop door. 

“I am a _Prince of Hell,” _he snaps.“You are an _Archangel. _We’re more than just hereditary enemies- we are _generals of opposing armies_.” 

Behind him, Raphael snorts. “‘O, get thee behind me, foul fiend’?” she offers, clearly trying to show him how ridiculous he’s being. He won’t take the bait. 

He scowls at her. “Quite. After you.” 

The Antichrist has been on earth for twenty-four hours. In Raphael’s company, the last six of those hours are wiled away in seconds, and with copious amounts of fine wine that “most definitely won’t survive the apocalypse, c’mon Asmodeus, you were in America during the prohibition, be realistic- since when has Heaven _or_ Hell had good taste in alcohol?” 

Asmodeus gives a vague, noncommittal noise and takes another drink, lip poking out a bit when he finds there’s none left. 

He _knows_ what she’s trying to do and it won’t work. 

“See, but the thing is, the thing_ is_-” 

Asmodeus’ head falls back in disgust. “_What _are you going on about _now_?” 

Raphael huffs, brow knitting as she sets down her wine glass very seriously. “S’the- the_ thing_. You ‘member Noah?” 

Asmodeus’ squint is scrutinizing, like he’s trying very very hard to translate some ancient text that just ends up being a recipe for bread. “Hn?” 

“Y’know- cranky bugger, always- y’know. _Noah_.” 

“I_ know_\- was there, you know. What’s he got to do with any of this?” 

“Well- th’ point I’m tryin’ to make- ‘s not fair, is it? Last time She saved ‘em. ‘Cept for the unicorns, ‘f course.” She looks incredibly stricken at this. “Loved unicorns,” she mumbles. 

“Unicorns did that to themselves,” Asmodeus declares grandly, an opinion he’s kept to himself until now as it hasn’t really had the chance to come up. “Smug bastards. _Not _that horses’re an improvement. They’ve got- _fingers _for legs. Unnatural.” He clutches his glass, full again, close to his chest, and gives a little shudder. 

Raphael looks wounded. “Nononono, s’not_ fingers_. They got hooves, see. N’ horns. Horn. Singular. Jus’ like those… the fuckin’.” She stops, pondering. “The- things. Narwhale things.” 

Asmodeus scoffs. “Narwhals don’t exist.” 

“They _do_! Seen ‘em! Unicorns of the sea, people say. Say unicorns turned into ‘em. ‘R was that dolphins?” 

“Horses,” Asmodeus grouses. 

“Not. _Not_ horses. Horse don’t- don’t ev- vevo- turn into summin’ else in forty days’n’nights.” 

“Mammal wouldn’t become a fish.” Asmodeus sounds so certain of this, as if he himself, given the choice, would also not become a fish. Not that he’s a mammal, per say, but his assertion stands. 

“Dolphins’re mammals. I think.” Her face screws up in concentration. “Something about their young. Not the point.” 

“So what _is_-” 

“NOAH! That’s my point. _Noah_. Load up all the aminals onto his- his-” she struggles for words, pouring herself another glass, “-big boat. ‘Cept the lizards, the big ones, they were born dead, we know all ‘bout that-” 

“And the unicorns. Mentioned those already.” 

“- _And_ the unicorns,” she amends, “and the- the narwhals, who were fine, bein’ sea-” 

“Fish.” 

“_\- Mammals_. ‘N they all got saved, that time. Sort of. Mostly. Two of each, anyway.” 

“Never mind how many were, were- de- ext-” He stops and frowns, pursing his lips. “‘Xtinctified. That one. In the aftermath. Very muddy business, that.” 

“Quit- you’re distractin’ me. Stoppit. Lemme- I’m tryin’ t’make a _point_. No sea bubblin’ with Noah. Just- bunch’a water ‘n that’s it, not all the- trumpets ‘n seals ‘n things.”  
  
“_Seals_?” Asmodeus can’t recall hearing anything about those during the Apocalypse briefings, but what does he know? It’s not like he’s been keeping up these days. 

“No- not the barkin’ ones. Y’know, the ones that John was goin’ _on ‘n’ on ‘n’ on ‘n’ on _about. ‘Nd the, the sea gonna boil, turn everything into- into-” 

The noise and face she makes next is less than flattering as she attempts French in her current state of inebriation. Asmodeus’ is even less so. 

“-Fish-mammal stew. No more narwhals.” 

Asmodeus’ nose scrunches up rather unpleasantly at the notion of _mammal stew_. Unpleasant business, that is. And narwhals don’t even exist in the first place. 

“‘Nd that’s not all, neither, no no, not even their fault - didn’t tempt dolphins with forbidden fruit, did ya - ‘n they’re all gonna die.” 

She leans back, pleased to have finally reached her point. And then the gravity of what she’s said reaches her, and she looks significantly less pleased and rockets from her seat. “All things. Gorillas too, ‘n their nests. Whales ‘n their big brains, they didn’t even do anything- ‘n then, then what’ve _we_ got? When it’s all over?” 

Asmodeus frowns. “‘We’?” he asks, hesitant. He swears, if she’s gearing up for_ that _talk, he needs to be _far _more drunk than this. 

“Gotta- gotta deal with, fuckin’-” Raphael lurches, and Asmodeus has a sudden terror that she’s about to make a much greater mess of his shop. She throws her arms open wide, tipping her head back. Wine splashes from her glass rather ominously. “_-ETERNITY!_” 

Asmodeus pales, looking away with a haunted expression. “Eternity?” 

“Eternity,” she confirms. “No more sushi. Be all cooked in the fish-mammal stew, y’know.” It’s Asmodeus’s turn to look stricken, but Raphael’s not finished yet. “An’ don’t forget ‘bout the thousand years.” 

Asmodeus had, in fact, managed to forget all about the thousand years. Raphael continues. “‘ve got it on the _highest_ authority that they’re gonna be playin’ the Sound of Music for you lot the whole time. Mum loves it, y’know.” 

“_No_.” 

“_Ohyes_. Think of it- thousand years, no sushi, just dead people- all, rottin’ and stinkin’ up the place- and the _Sound of Music_. N’ then y’just die after.” 

“S’a little- lil anti- anty- not, not real special, that.” He’s glaring moodily into the bottom of his glass. Raphael is tossing through his theatre programmes. 

“See? Just- ‘s not right.” 

Asmodeus shakes his head. “‘m gonna sober up, I can’t- can’t cope with this while ‘m drunk.” 

“Hnn. Me too.” 

Becoming undrunk is a rather unpleasant experience and not one Asmodeus cares to repeat on a regular basis, which is why he typically avoids getting drunk enough to need to do it. But the impending Apocalypse had seemed as good an occasion as any, though he’s very much regretting the decision now as he smacks his lips with a disgusted wrinkle to his face. Raphael seems to be having the same regrets, setting her glass aside and shooting the wine bottle a look like it’s personally insulted her. 

Asmodeus folds his hands delicately over his belly, his usual defense. 

“Look, Raphael. I do agree with you. None of us _really_ wants the world to end, do we?” This is patently untrue. There are plenty of demons, angels, and even humans who would be quite eager to see things go up in flames. “But it’s not- I am a_ Prince of Hell_, as I keep reminding you. I report directly to Lucifer. There’s no disobeying _him_.” 

“You think the others’re any better? She hasn’t talked to any of us in- can’t even remember when, and Gabriel and the rest aren’t too keen on being questioned. And believe me, I’ve _tried_.” She shakes her head. “S’up to us.” 

Asmodeus fights back a frustrated groan. She just won’t _listen_. “Even if I _wanted_ to help - which I _don’t_ \- I most definitely could _not_. None of us can interfere with the _Divine Plan_. Even demons. We all play our role.” 

Raphael’s eyes light up. 

“The Divine Plan, yeah, that’s something- but what about your diabolical plans?” 

“My _what_?” 

“Your- you know. Your side has the baby. That’s already somethin’. And _I_ can interfere with _that_. If I did…” 

“That’d be-” 

“Me thwarting your wiles, Evil One. Like I’m supposed to. And you- well, if I’m interferin’ and raisin’ him all good, you’d have to make sure I _didn’t,_ wouldn’t you? Your side couldn’t have a _good _Antichrist. It’d defeat the whole point. You know, you see me thwartin’, you out-wile. D’you see?” 

Asmodeus does, in fact, see. He leans back into his seat consideringly. “You’re telling me,” he starts, “that your plan to - what - _thwart the Apocalypse_, is to find and raise this Dowling boy as a _saint_? And that you expect _me _to match you for… for influencing him?” 

“Got it in one.” 

He combs his fingers through his beard. “Put like that, they couldn’t object to my presence there at all, really, could they?” 

“Couldn’t possibly. Keeping your King’s son evil, aren’tcha? Outweighing Heavenly influences? Be a real feather in your wing. Not that you need more, bein’ a Prince.” Raphael gestures. “We’d be- I don’t know, godparents, of a sort. Raise him proper. Raise him _human_, or as close to as we can.” 

Raphael holds out her hand. “What do you say?” 

Asmodeus looks at her hand like it’s a snake poised to strike before he takes it. “It- _could _work. Only so long as my name is kept out of it.” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” she grins. “I’ve got just the thing.” 

It’s remarkable how _little_ things have changed, in seventeen years. 

* * *

‘Just the thing’ ends up being the utterly harebrained scheme of _posing as_ _employees_. A _nanny_ and a _cook._

Asmodeus tugs ineffectively at his- his_ bowtie_. _Ugh. _Why he got saddled with chef he’ll never know. Curse Raphael and her imagination. “You’re _certain_ this is necessary?” 

Raphael straightens her skirt. “You didn’t want your name involved, remember? It’s fine. It’ll be _fun_.” 

* * *

The day young Master Warlock is brought home, the Dowlings find themselves with two new employees on staff. 

One of them is Nanny Martha, whose last name eludes all, looking like she’s stepped straight out of some Mary Poppins-adjacent title with her tweed coat and delicately coiffed hair. She is brought on to assist Mrs. Dowling, and very quickly finds herself doing more than just assisting. The other is the new head chef, a stern man of indeterminate middle age who is clean-shaven and dark haired, having found the job miraculously open after the last cook had suffered an unfortunate accident with his cleaver. 

Within the next few months, Nanny Martha begins to look less like Mary Poppins and more like a relaxed librarian of some kind in proper trousers and a loose, delicately buttoned white dress shirt. She’d figured out rather quickly that the “proper” nanny ensemble was actually entirely impractical for dealing with children. Especially the heels. She’d ruined many a pair getting caught in the grass. 

Cook Ignatius, for this is the name he offered, is an excellent cook - for all that he’s never actually seen _cooking_. Mostly he seems to _brood _over other kitchen staff like some kind of menacing television chef, snapping at them derisively for slightly undercooked steaks or a badly plated meal [6]. All this said, he does always have time for Warlock, by virtue of never doing any real work. 

No one thinks it’s odd, that the nanny and the cook might be seen together so easily and often. She’s the only person he doesn’t yell at, and she’s soft with him in a way she isn’t with others. It’s assumed that they’re married. 

Neither party bothers to deny that. 

* * *

Mrs. Dowling is… not the greatest with children. This is clear to Raphael within moments of meeting her. She loves Warlock, that much is obvious, but she _clearly_ doesn’t know what to expect of him or how to expect it. He’s a_ baby_, for goodness’ sake. He can’t even lift his head without the risk of dying. At first, Raphael is to be extra help while Mrs. Dowling is busy with being the wife of a diplomat. She is given a room of her own in the estate in which to live, nearby to Warlock’s nursery, and she is to care for him and watch him when his mother is too busy to. 

Her couple hours watching Warlock very quickly become entire days, then weeks in which Mrs. Dowling will only see him occasionally. 

Yes, it’s obvious that the woman_ loves_ Warlock - it’s just also obvious that she doesn’t _like _him very much. Raphael, being the falsified Nanny of the Antichrist, tries very hard to not have an opinion on this. 

Raphael fails in that regard with relative frequency, finding herself with plenty of _opinions _on the seeming apathy Warlock’s parents feel for him. Really, why have a child at all if you’re not going to _like _them? It seems rather counterproductive, though in the case of the Dowlings she suspects having a child was just the_ thing to do_. Another mark on the checklist they seem to be working their way down. 

Still, she supposes it does leave her with plenty of time with the Antichrist. He’s a rather fussy child, and not all that bright as babies go, but he _is _sweet. At least with her. He’ll fuss and squawk at any other person he’s handed to, so that’s probably a good sign, right? A step in the right direction, which is somewhere towards the middle. 

For his part, Asmodeus _absolutely_ and _resolutely _refuses to hold Warlock for the first few months of his life. “I am_ not_ going to be responsible for killing the _son of Satan_ because I didn’t properly support his head,” he tells her, and Raphael rolls her eyes but lets it go. Sometimes she understands the sentiment, the enormity of responsibility looming impossibly large in the shadow of this tiny creature in her arms. 

Sometimes, rocking him to sleep or taking him on walks in the park, she can almost forget what he is. What he is to be, what he is to become- he may as well be the same as any of the other infants she’s cared for over the centuries. It’s a dangerous thought to be thinking. It’s a dangerous thought she can’t shake. 

Not like it’s his fault, being the Antichrist. He didn’t ask for this. 

“Best not get attached,” Asmodeus says calmly as she lays the child down for his afternoon nap. 

Raphael makes a face. “‘M not attached. He’s just a kid. Kids need to be treated gentle.” 

Asmodeus shrugs. “If you insist, my dear. I wouldn’t know much about that,” he relents, not unkindly. Now that she thinks about it, she’s not sure she’s seen him get attachedto _any_ living thing since Cain. Well, she thinks that rather _would_ do it. She leans away from the now-sleeping infant. 

“Haven’t you got a _meal _to be ‘preparing’, Cook Ignatius?” She quirks her brows at him, and he scowls. 

“The kitchen staff here is absolutely _useless_. They wouldn’t know a macaron from a maca_roon._” 

“That’s not what I meant.” She gestures. “He needs to nap. Shoo.” 

Asmodeus raises his hands placatingly, turning to retreat back into the spaces he knows better. 

Raphael watches him leave, the softest sigh falling wistfully from her lips. 

How easy it is to fall back into this with him. 

* * *

**-9 Years Before the End of the World-**

This had been a bad idea. This had been a _patently_ bad idea. This had been a bad idea that had ‘Raphael’ written all over it, as most bad ideas do. 

Asmodeus frowns into a sauce pan and wills its contents to be less salty. 

In the two years they’ve been at the Dowling estate, he has_ personally_ cooked less than five dinners, and miracled plenty more into existence. Mostly he serves to cause a plethora of minor sins among his kitchen staff and look after Raphael and the Antichrist child. Or rather, look after Raphael looking after the Antichrist child. Tempting an infant is a rather moot effort, if you ask him. There’s not much he himself can personally do. 

He knows why he’s here, of course, but he almost wonders if it wouldn’t have been easier to step in when the child reached that golden age of being able to comprehend the choices of good and evil. So that he can be tempted into evil, of course, and right back out of it again until he reaches neutral ground. Still, Raphael had _insisted_ on coming now- something about the early childhood years and the importance of having a loving figure to rear them. And if _she’s_ going to be here, then he has to be as well. To keep an eye on things. 

Unfortunately, given his _position_, mostly he keeps an eye on the other inhabitants. Much to his chagrin. He was not hired to be a_ chef_\- or, well, he was on a technicality, but it wasn’t why he took the job. He hadn’t planned on all the heat and frustration of trying to keep a kitchen in order. He swears even his multitude of Hellish underlings aren’t quite as incompetent. But temptation is ever an intricate web, and if he can cause a chain reaction that leads to the Dowlings’ frustration - in turn affecting the child’s mood - then he’ll count that as a win on his end of things. 

He’d be lying if he said it weren’t just a little fun sometimes. It’s certainly a better job than a _gardener._

He snaps his fingers and points imperiously at a lingering steward. “You. Keep an eye on this.” 

He doesn’t offer any more explanation than that. If they misunderstand him, that’s on them - he just needs to get out of that _kitchen._ All _hot _and _loud_ and _cramped, _he has no idea what Raphael was thinking when she came up with this cover for him. The cooler outside air does him much better. It’s Warlock’s second birthday soon, and the Dowlings have elected to serve things that no two year old would willingly eat in their right minds, such as _roast duck _and _beet salad_. 

Warlock’s current favorite food consists of… well, exclusively cheese. Kraft singles, specifically [7]. The issue here is that you cannot very well serve Kraft singles to all of the Dowlings’ friends and family. He supposes you _might_, but it wouldn’t go over very well with these types. Or any types that aren’t toddlers, come to think of it. 

Asmodeus heaves a great sigh, leaning back against the side of the house, eyes shutting. This is only the second one he’s endured, but birthdays are such an _ordeal_. He’s a Prince of Hell, for Satan’s sake, and yet the prospect of having to deal with nine more of these as the head chef makes him shudder. He almost wishes for a smoke, if only for something to do with his hands. Too early in the morning for that, probably- 

“-and that’s where the gardeners keep their tools.” Raphael’s voice floats around the corner, obviously in the middle of some long winded explanation. He cracks one eye open, watching as the two of them walk into view. Warlock’s hand is held securely in hers as she guides him along the grass, the child taking big clumsy steps as he looks around at everything his curious eyes can take in. 

“Tools?” he asks, still figuring out the finer points of vocabulary. 

“Yep. They help the plants grow. Spades and hoes and- er, things.” 

Warlock is quickly distracted from the tool shed, already moved on to pointing at the seperate building for the kitchen. “W’as that?” 

“The kitchen. They’re making food for your party today, but if you ask me, they’ve got no idea what sort of meal a birthday is good for, I mean- not even a slice of pizza! Or burgers, classic birthday meal, you’d think _the Americans_ would’ve gathered as much-” Warlock blinks owlishly up at her. “-and you’ve got no idea what I’m talking about. That’s fine.” Warlock grins. 

“We have pizza?” 

“Er- no. No pizza.” 

Asmodeus feels a pang of pity. Imagine thinking you’ll be getting pizza and instead receiving _duck_ and _beets_. They do cut quite the picture though, the two of them hand in hand as Warlock explores this strange world he’s living in - the world he’s destined to rule in the endtimes. 

She’s good at this. Much better at it than he is at _cooking_. As he watches, she stoops to point out something in the grass. “What’s this, Warlock?” 

Warlock bends down to look closer. “Sug!” 

“_Slug_, good job! There’s an_ l_ in there, love. Pretty things, aren’t they?” 

Asmodeus snorts. Pretty slugs? Really? She’s laying it on a little _thick_, but Warlock is eating it right up, crouching his diapered self low to look closely and gently poke at its eyestalks. 

He can’t see it from here, but he’s pretty sure this slug is no more or less pretty than any other. That fact doesn’t stop Raphael. 

As if _knowing_ he’s there (which she very well might, she always does), she looks up suddenly and catches his gaze. The tiniest smile dances across her lips. 

Before he can stop it, an answering smile crawls onto his face to meet hers. _Damn her_. 

“D’you remember what I was saying about slugs, Warlock?” she continues, tearing her gaze from Asmodeus’. “Look how small and soft she is. She has no shell to keep her safe like a snail does. Warlock, sometimes in your life there will be people just like this slug here. They’re gonna need your help when they can’t fend for themselves. And if you’ve got the power to help them, then you should.” 

Warlock reaches to pet the slug very, very gently with his pudgy little hand, and then wipes the resulting slime off on the legs of his frog overalls. Raphael smiles fondly and offers the boy a handkerchief. The morning air is cool and bright and even free of the hassle of the kitchen, Asmodeus is annoyed. That’s clearly what the tight feeling in his chest is about. 

This is _ridiculous_. It’s just a slug and the boy doesn’t even understand what she’s _saying_. He’s already toddling off onto the next creature to occupy his attention, already forgetting what his nanny had been talking about in favor of going on about _hoes_. Raphael herself stands, hands on her hips and looking striking in the morning sun as she tells the child not to wander far, they need to go inside soon and get washed up for his party. 

It’s _ridiculous_, but he can’t stop watching anyways. She’s- well, an angel with the child, really. He should’ve expected as much, what with the way she’d been with those children during the Flood, but it’s still somehow managed to surprise him. She’s _enjoying_ this. 

Perhaps a bit too much for her own good. 

This terribly small, terribly _human_ child of hers will instigate Armageddon in nine years. He’s too busy petting slugs, now, but perhaps they’ll see their first example of infernal power when he realizes he’s not having pizza for dinner. 

Asmodeus looks away, and heads back into the heat of the kitchen. Whether he cooks the meal personally or not, he does unfortunately need to be seen doing _something._ He can’t just spend all day appreciating the way Raphael’s blouse accentuates her waist. 

* * *

The party goes off with no small amount of hitches. Though not quite _Apocalyptic_, the fit Warlock throws when he realizes there is, in fact, no pizza, is no laughing matter. The sky didn’t rain blood and nor did the cattle in the countryside spontaneously burst into boils, but they might as well have with the force of his tantrum. 

His parents, of course, don’t make matters any better. Thaddeus tells him sternly to _man up,_ declaring that if he won’t eat the duck and beet salad then he won’t be getting anything else. From her spot at the table, Raphael’s lips thin. Who expects to sit a child down with _that _sort of meal and get a good response? 

Evidently, the Dowlings do. Mrs. Dowling at least _tries_ to be gentle with Warlock before she, too, loses patience, and leaves the dining room all together to avoid the situation, finding some friends to mingle with out in the garden instead. The birthday boy himself is left to miserably pick at his duck with his nanny. She tries to cheer him up, reminding him that he gets _cake _if he eats at least a little bit of it. Just a beet or two. 

Frankly, she’s never been one for duck either, but Warlock soldiers through his single bite of beet and slivers of duck. 

By the time it gets to cake and presents, he almost seems like he’ll be alright, earlier upset almost completely forgotten. 

It’s not until later that she’ll realize how poorly she’d judged that. 

* * *

While away from his bookshop, Asmodeus has gotten dreadfully behind on his reading quota. It’s embarrassing, really - usually by now he’d have read some hundred books this month alone, but the work that he doesn’t do at the estate keeps him busy. 

But tonight he’s determined to at least get one good book in, sinking down into his plush armchair by the roaring fireplace with a hot cup of cocoa. It is, in his opinion, the perfect set-up, and one he’s used since the invention of hot chocolate. Settling his reading glasses on his nose, he opens the book, the spine giving a pleasant _crack_. He sighs, content, ready to relax from such a stressful day. He’s got an entire year before he has to do it all again. 

He’s only three pages in when there’s a knock at his door, and a muffled admonition through it. 

“Warlock’s with me, so you’d better be decent.” 

When Asmodeus sighs this time, it’s with an unmistakable irritation. The scowl he’s wearing deepens when he checks his watch and sees the time. What Raphael could possibly be doing awake at this hour with the _child_, he can’t fathom. 

Despite his irritation, he shuts his book and tucks it under his arm, standing with some amount of dread. Whatever it is, it certainly can’t be anything good. When he opens the door, the angel’s eyes flick over his form with some surprise and it’s only then that he realizes he’s in his _pajamas_, something she’s never seen and something he’d been prepared to never let her see as long as they may live. 

So much for that. 

In her arms, Warlock is clearly coming down from a crying spell- his eyes are a puffed red, snot running down his face, and tear tracks on his blotchy cheeks. Asmodeus frowns, the boy burying his face in his nanny’s neck when he realizes he’s being assessed. 

Raphael shifts his weight a bit, looking slightly pleading. “I’d gone to check on him, make sure he’s sleeping alright, y’know, and found him crying his little heart out. Dunno if you heard the whole thing earlier, but that-” Asmodeus can tell she’s trying her best not to curse in front of Warlock, “- _Mr. Dowling _wouldn’t let him eat anything else. You know the kitchen better than I do, if you’d- I dunno, point me in the right direction. Probably not the cheese, ‘s not the most filling, but- you think you’ve got anything for a sandwich?” 

Asmodeus looks from her beseeching expression to the pathetic creature in her arms, and sighs for a third and final time. It’s quieter than the last. 

“Give me a moment to get dressed,” he says. And then he is. 

Raphael’s beseeching expression sours. “Asm- _Ignatius-_” 

Asmodeus takes her shoulders in hand, then her elbows. “_Martha_, my dear, he’s _two. _If he remembers this at all, it’ll be like an odd fever dream, won’t it?” The last bit is directed to the child, who’s staring at him with eyes so wide they look like they’re about to pop out of his head. Good. Let him fear, a little. It’ll make his job easier later on. 

The trip to the kitchen is quick and quiet. This late, all the staff have long gone to bed, leaving the three of them alone; Raphael sets Warlock on a counter and brushes his hair from his forehead to kiss him there. The boy sniffs and wipes his nose miserably. Watching them from the corner of his eye, Asmodeus busies himself preparing _something _for the thing to eat. 

“Will you not catch trouble with his parents for this?” he asks idly, buttering a slice of bread for Warlock in the meantime to tide him over. He hands it off to the child cautiously, like offering a crocodile raw chicken breast. He’s not sure if normal children bite at this age, but Asmodeus _also _knows Warlock’s father and knows not to be surprised about it if he does. 

Warlock very cautiously takes the slice of bread, and thanks him in a small voice at Raphael’s behest. 

Hm. Whatever it was his heart just did, he hadn’t enjoyed it. He can already feel his features twisting in pity. _Stop that._

Now that the Antichrist child has food, Raphael finally acknowledges his question with a small shrug. “It’s not like they have to find out, is it?” 

Asmodeus’ brows shoot up. “Not very _angelic _of you, is it, lying to his parents.” 

“It isn’t _lying_.” 

He prepares a _proper _meal for Warlock, carrots and birthday candle included, and wipes his hands on an errant kitchen towel. He’s removed the crusts and cut it into triangles. There’s even a slice of cheese in it. “No, I suppose not.” 

Raphael passes the plate to Warlock, who eyes the carrots dubiously. She takes one from his plate and eats it for him. This seems enough for him, who sets into the sandwich with a gusto only to be had from a toddler whose last meal had consisted of a singular beet and a slice of cake. 

Asmodeus fidgets with the dishtowel. 

“There, then. Better?” 

Warlock gives a small nod and yawn. “Yeah.” Despite the handful of times Asmodeus has heard him talk, it still takes him by slight surprise. Shouldn’t it be at least another millennia before he’s speaking in full sentences? 

He really doesn’t look like his father at all. Maybe that’s Lilith’s influence. Raphael smiles, though, and gently ruffles the boy’s hair. 

“S’pose we should get you back to bed then, shouldn’t we?” 

She hands the plate off to Asmodeus, ignored carrots rolling forlornly in the vacated space. Children. They never know what’s good. But as she lifts Warlock from the counter, he clings unexpectedly to her neck. 

“Don’t wanna go bed,” he whines, tightening his grip around Raphael. “Wanna stay.” 

“Oh, dear. We’ve created a _gremlin._” Asmodeus squints at the child, moving a safe distance away _just in case_. Raphael bats at him. 

“Don’t be stupid,” she says. Her tone softens, shifting her attention to Warlock now. “You need to sleep, sweetling.” 

His whine grows to a frankly alarming pitch. Asmodeus’ eyes flick to the windows, waiting for the glass to shatter. “_No_.” 

Raphael sighs, shifting his weight onto her hip. “Well, guess I know what_ I’ll _be doing tonight.” 

* * *

Unfortunately for Asmodeus’ reading quota, it’s not just Raphael. 

He, also, ends up dragged to bed, entirely at Warlock’s behest. He is his Master’s son, after all, it’s not like he can tell him _no._ When he tries he’s met with the most lethal watery eyes he’s ever seen and an anxiety-inducing lip wobble. The last thing either of them need is more tears, Warlock is already dehydrated enough as it is. It’s been an exhausting day for everyone involved. 

Raphael settles Warlock against her chest, and Asmodeus fidgets beside the bed. “I’ll go get my book, then, I suppose.” 

Raphael snaps, and his book is waiting for him on the bedside table. 

Asmodeus’ gasp is less shocked and more _deeply _offended that she’d even dare. What if she’d lost his _place_?He’d never forgive her. 

Warlock squirms and whines, and Asmodeus seats himself delicately on the side of the bed. Raphael tuts. 

“No shoes in bed,” she says. “S’my bed. Don’t want dirt.” 

“You _must _be joking.” 

“No shoes, Asmodeus.” 

He scowls and stoops to remove them. “Happy?” 

“Very.” 

He sits with his back to the headboard, ankles delicately crossed and turning a page in his book already. In moments, Warlock is asleep, drooling against Raphael’s shoulder. _Finally_. Silence. Blessed silence. 

Blessed silence here, in Raphael’s room, in Raphael’s _bed, _with the Antichrist asleep between them. He’s finding it rather difficult to focus on the words in front of him with her so near. 

They’d both been so _distant, _and for good reason. It was what she deserved, really, for that stunt she’d pulled, but that didn’t change the fact that he felt her absence afterwards like a phantom limb; looking after the Antichrist like this with her was, in a way, torture. And Asmodeus would know - he _knows _torture. Nothing Hell could pull together could be as tormenting as this. It’s with some amount of dread that he realizes this is the closest they’ve been in almost twenty years. 

He’s been staring at the same word on this page for far too long. Asmodeus puts his book down to glance at his watch, and then at the lamp by the side-table, and then - and this he regrets the most - over to his side where he had assumed Raphael had fallen asleep. 

She hadn’t. Not yet. 

She’s wide awake, and watching him quietly with bright eyes. He can’t _not _look at them; they practically glow in the dark. She’s like his own personal nightlight [8]. 

They practically glow in the day, too. They practically _glow_ in general, betraying her mood far better than those tacky rings the humans have taken to wearing. _Like molten gold_ is a comparison he has made before, and it’s a comparison he’ll make again along with sunlight, and fire, and _every_ obnoxious poem that’s ever written on the subject of _a lover’s eyes_. They’re not a _bonfire,_ no, nothing so violent. He could never compare them to a _burning_ sun either - the sun is beautiful, but unapproachable, giving life and taking it in equal measures. It’s no wonder the humans at one point thought it to be a god. No, nothing _destructive_. That could never be her. Raphael isn’t the inferno. She’s the aftermath of a holy wildfire, her eyes the embers left behind. 

And yet, despite all these comparisons to such things that would leave him singed, somehow he knows that she’d never let him burn. 

Somewhere in those embers, there is a spark of something he dare not name. She looks askance, a blush dusting her cheeks at being caught. The moment slips away, and Asmodeus isn’t sure if he should be disappointed or relieved. 

Curled between them, Warlock fusses idly against her chest. Without thinking, still distracted by the errant curl slipped free from her bun and brushing against Raphael’s cheek, Asmodeus reaches an absent hand to card through the child’s hair. 

Their Antichrist quiets, tucking his hand under his chin, and Asmodeus resigns himself to a long night. 

* * *

The next years are a blur of activity. Once Warlock has reached an age where Asmodeus can more easily engage with him, life becomes a proper Hell for the Dowlings and infinitely more interesting for himself and Raphael. For starters, there’s the myriad of religious experiences Raphael has decided Warlock needs to partake in to become properly well rounded. It simply wouldn’t do to only take him to a _Baptist_ church. Between Mass and the Synagogue, their weekends are rather busy indeed. The three of them pile into a pristine white Volkswagen Beetle that did not exist the day before and likely would not exist after, only appearing in its parking place when needed, and toodle along at a snail’s pace to whichever congregation Raphael has decided upon. 

They leave _extra_ early to account for Asmodeus’ driving, which has not progressed past the very first automobiles’ ten miles per hour. 

Mass is _particularly_ painful, in the most literal sense, as he cannot set foot inside any respectable cathedral. That said, he _has_ found himself becoming quite fond of napping in the car while he waits. It’s not as though he has anything better to do with his time, really. The Catholics themselves do a rather spectacular job of his half of the work. 

Although now that he thinks about it, _Raphael_ has to sit on an uncomfortable pew and suffer through endless kneeling and standing and kneeling again with a child, the only reward being stale donuts and coffee at the end, while Asmodeus himself gets to lie back in the sun and bask a little in the stale air of his Beetle. Perhaps this is a win for him, after all. The advent of _reclinable seats _in cars is one he can get behind. On one memorable occasion, he nearly had the _police_ called on him simply because he forgot humans tended to engage in that pesky habit of _breathing _while they slept. Raphael hadn’t been pleased. 

Synagogue usually goes over much better, for which he’s thankful. At least they have a sense of _fun._ And style. And _food_. _Food_ especially. 

And then, for Warlock’s sixth birthday, there’s the _Disney trip_. In _Paris_. Despite supposedly being the “happiest place on earth”, it is remarkably miserable, in Asmodeus’ own not-so-humble opinion. Lucky Raphael got in on account of being the child’s nanny. _He_ had to commandeer one of the face characters to even get close. He can’t say it’s an experience he wants to repeat. 

They raise the child as best they can - tempting and thwarting, a sort of cosmic game of tug-of-war with the fate of the earth in the balance. Asmodeus encourages him to steal from the cookie jars and to destroy the delicate cakes meant for Harriet’s tea parties, to subjugate the guests and their tiny sandwiches. He tells him he _deserves _it, as the budding king of the world. Raphael encourages him to give some of his allowance to a nondescript charity that claims to end world hunger and teaches him how to take adequate care of a goldfish. 

When the boy turns nine, his parents decide that he no longer needs a nanny. They dismiss her with all the love in the world and Raphael has to pry Warlock from her legs when it’s time to leave. If Asmodeus notices a glassy sheen to her eyes, he’s polite enough not to mention it. He goes with her, of course, and doesn’t bother to correct the assumption that it’s because they’re going to _elope_. 

They return in the autumn as two private tutors: Mr. Anderson and Mr. Reid [9]. Their disguises are immaculate, and no one is the wiser. Mr. Anderson schools him on arithmetic, the sciences, and language arts. His counterpart with whom he has a delicious rivalry, Mr. Reid, teaches history of various descriptions and, rather bizarrely for Warlock’s age, astronomy. Asmodeus doesn’t bother to comment on who has the heavier load with these disguises. He supposes in a way it’s fair- Raphael did have to nanny the boy, after all. 

But it’s not the same, not really, for them or for Warlock. 

They were never meant to become _attached _anyway. 

* * *

**-3 Months Before the End of the World-**

“Well,” Raphael reflects, “I s’pose we’ve done all that we can do.” 

He’s glaring _glarefully_ at the dusty carpet pattern beneath his feet. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost think there were snakes and apples woven into the tapestry. Asmodeus sees this, and wonders when he’ll notice. 

It’s only been _two hundred and nineteen years _of staring at that same rug, after all. 

Asmodeus sighs, and fills his glass anew from the steadily draining bottle of wine between them. Were he one for self reflection, he might be concerned at how many bottles they’ve gone through in the years since wine’s been invented. As it is, he only hums as he sets it back on the table for Raphael to pick up in his stead. 

“I suppose so,” he agrees. With Raphael’s eyes fixed on the ground, Asmodeus can safely have his own fixed on _him -_ on his hair, his long frame slouched into the sofa, mulishly mulling over their prospective futures. There’s something ceaselessly charming about the furrow of his brow, the way his nails tease the stem of his glass like a rose plucked from its parent plant, the way he anxiously gnaws on his lower lip. It’d be more endearing if what he’s anxious about wasn’t the potential of their impending demise in just three month’s time. 

Asmodeus sighs. 

“So what do we do now?” Raphael asks moodily. “Just- wait? For _three months? _S’nothin’ else we can do with him, ‘less you wanna try being a swim instructor.” 

His nose scrunches. “I would prefer not to.” 

“S’what I thought. Snakes don’t swim well either, y’know. Well. Not the _me _kind, anyways,” he amends, frowning into his glass. 

It’s unfair, really, that Raphael should be so pretty in this light. Asmodeus’ scowl deepens, and he looks away at the precarious tower of books on his desk awaiting sorting. 

The silence is broken by Raphael making some _noise_, the tiniest huff, his leg bouncing miserably. His mouth opens, then closes again with a _click _and pursed lips as he frowns into the encroaching dark. Asmodeus can’t help but agree. There’s things they should say, aren’t there? An old argument to have, _feelings _to hash out. The end of the world is nigh, after all, and they won’t have the chance to say them again. 

Things they should say. Things they _need _to say. 

Things that he can’t possibly bring himself to talk about. 

Instead, he offers what he can, clearing his throat as he taps his fingers lightly on his glass. “What would you say to dinner, my dear? It’s been an awfully long time since we’ve indulged.” 

That seems to startle Raphael from his ill-tempered reverie. He’s sat upright, now, staring at Asmodeus with eyes like - ironically - dinnerplates. “Wh- _dinner? _Now?” 

Asmodeus winces at the raw tone in his voice, and holds up a hand. “_Don’t_ \- don’t read too much into it, Raphael. It’s simply been a while. I thought it sounded… nice.” 

Raphael clears his throat, averting his gaze with a hurried nod. “Right, yep- it does. Sound nice- friendly, even. That’s us. _Friends_.” 

There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence, in which Asmodeus’ heart gives a weak little flutter, and then Raphael rolls upwards on quick feet. He snatches his jacket from where it’s been draped over the back of the couch, shrugging it on. “Come on, then.” 

He’s halfway out the door before Asmodeus can catch up. 

_Friends_. He thinks he can do that. 

* * *

1 These are not Hastur’s words. They are, in fact, Lucifer's, and he's gladly used them on more than one occasion and delights in the palpable awkward silence that follows. [ return to text ] 

2 Well, not that bit anyway. The delivering part is actually rather flattering. Sure, Lucifer told Prince Beelzebub that he didn't have time to do it himself and Prince Beelzebub had found the nearest lackey to pass the job on to, but he's still the chosen lackey to do it. He's really gaining some upward mobility, he is. The Ligur aspect isn’t so bad either, not that you’ll find him admitting that. [ return to text ] 

3 Asmodeus is mistaken in his assumption that Lucifer is capable of reading his mind. In reality, Lucifer had merely taken in the furrowed and unhappy expression on his Prince’s face and correctly assumed that he was having _opinions_ about the whole thing, something rather discouraged among demons. Though, truth be told, Asmodeus was always permitted more leeway in this than most. [ return to text ] 

4 Yes, she’s bitter. No, she’s not considering a change of career. She likes her work, she just also likes complaining about it - and complaining about having to go to work is such a purely human thing. Raphael has grown fond of it. [ return to text ] 

5 Long ago, when everyone was deciding who would do what during the Apocalypse, Raphael had stayed distinctly _out_ of the discussions. Which meant that while Michael ended up being tasked with leading God’s holy armies, Raphael had been assigned to blowing a _trumpet_. [ return to text ] 

6 The main reason for this is not because Asmodeus is particularly bothered by underdone meats or aesthetically displeasing plating, but because the only chefs he’s paid any attention to have _been_ television chefs. This all rather works out quite nicely, as they’re the only sort of chefs Thaddeus Dowling has seen as well. [ return to text ] 

7 Kraft singles are not available in the UK. This means that every time Warlock gets himself a hankering, Asmodeus needs to _pop over_ across the pond and stock up on the damnable things. Personally, he’s of the mind that they shouldn’t even count as _food_. [ return to text ] 

8 Strictly speaking, Asmodeus doesn’t _need_ a nightlight. He assumes that he’s able to read in the dark and thus he is. Still, it’s the principle of the thing. [ return to text ] 

9 Some time after his dismissal, Raphael goes back to using male pronouns once more. He'd been using she and her for so long they were starting to get rather stale - and after having to tear his charge from clinging at his legs and begging him to _please not go_, he found they'd lost their appeal for a while. [ return to text ] 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always thanks so much for reading! we don't have much to announce this time. hit us up at @raphhaels and @monsternobility on tumblr respectively!


	9. update: NOT a chapter!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOT A CHAPTER!! we also haven't abandoned this!! just a general update!

as you may have noticed it's uh. been a minute since our planned update. the thing is: brains. brains suck a lot and we haven't been writing as much as we want. so far we only have up to chapter 10 written and we don't feel that gives us enough cushion to post those. so we are on a **brief hiatus**. the fic is DEFINITELY not abandoned, i think we only have like... 3 more chapters to write? i believe? what happened was just, like i said, brains, but also that we combined two chapters (chapters 10 & 11) because they were both too short by themselves, which brought the count down. we're currently working on the new chapter 11.

it's just been a hell of a time folks! but with this goddamn virus & quarantines (we live in california and illinois, two of the states that've decided to do full lockdowns) we may get some more done. SPEAKING OF!!! if you are able, stay home, but social distance folks! wash your hands! keep at least 6 feet (2 meters) away from people and keep everyone safe! thank u thats been my psa.

lov u guys thanks for reading!


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